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Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part II., May, 18S9, to October, 18S9. 



Copyright, 1889, by The Century Co. 

The De Vinne Press. 

Library, Univ. ®f 

North C>*rr>\'tr<n 




Six Months — May, 1889, to October, 1889. 



" A Fairy's Broken Wing." Verse. (Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) Cornelia P. Stone 86S 

About a Skilled Chinese Youth. Verses. (Illustrated and engrossed by \ 

the Author) $ Charles Howard Johnson. ... 935 

About Ted Russell. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Eleanor Putnam 906 

Almost a Tragedy. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies) Celia Thaxler 890 

Alphabetical Wooing, An. Verse. (Illustrated and engrossed by Jessie > 

McDermott) \ Mar g a "' Johnson SSS 

Among Dogs of High Degree. (Illustrated) Noah Brooks S83 

Among the Florida Keys. (Illustrated by Meredith Nugent) Charles Frederick Holder . . . 674 

777. «44, 927 

April. Jingle. (Illustrated and engrossed by the Author) Tessie McDermott 501 

Artist's Daughter, The. Picture, drawn by A. Brenon 768 

Artist's Glimpse of Northern Arizona, An. (Illustrated by the Author)./'. S. Dellenbaugh S54 

August Day- at the Sea-shore, An. Picture, drawn by A. B. Davies 786 

Awful Thing that Tilly Ann Did, The. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) -Irlo Bates&> Eleanor Putnam 594 

Beatrice: A Little Florentine Lady. (Illustrated from photographs). . .Eleanor C. Lewis S13 

Bells of Ste. Anne, The. (Illustrated by Henry Sandham) Mary Harlwell Catherwood. . 492 

" Bingo Was His Name " Annie Hawells Frechette ... 613 

Bit of Color, A. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Sarah Orne Jewett 514, 572 

Boats, A Page of. Pictures, drawn by H. L. Bridwell 95 1 

Bread and Jam. (Illustrated by the Author) Henry Bacon 620 

Bridgman, The Story of Laura. (Illustrated) Joseph Jastrozo 746 

Brownies' Garden, The. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 546 

Bubblyjock, The. Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Emma Smuller Carter S73 

Bunny Stories, The. (Illustrated by Culmer Barnes) John H. Jtnuett 704 

7S7, S69, 946 

" Calico for Working Days." Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) C. McCormack Rogers 790 

Captain Duck. (Illustrated by W. A. Rogers) Joaquin Miller 753 

Challenge, The. Pictures, drawn by Dorothy Tennant. ... 600 

Charlie and the Hen. (Illustrated by W. Taber) Sylvia A. Moss 630 

Climbing the Pierced Rock. (Illustrated by H. Sandham and T. Moran) Ripley Hitchcock 5S1 

Close Corporation, A Ruth Putnam 954 

Creature with No Claws, The. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) Joel Chandler Harris 887 

"Cuff," the Orphan Bear-cub. (Illustrated by W. M. Cary) George A. Martin 53S 

Daddy Jake, the Runaway. (Illustrated by E. W. Kemble) Joel Chandler Harris 485 

Dance of the Daisies, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Sarah M. B. Piatt 731 

Dancing Lesson, One Hundred Years Ago, A. Picture, drawn bv F. H. ) 

Lungren ) ' 3 

Day Among the Blackberries, A. (Illustrated) Fannie IV. Marshall S20 

Days of the Daisies, The. Poem. (Illustrated) Helen Thayer Hutcheson .... 569 

Deer-hunts in the Adirondacks, My. (Illustrated by H. Sandham) Treadwell Walden 806 

Discovered. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson . . . 723 

Dogs of Noted Americans. (Illustrated from photographs) Gertrude Van R. Wickham. . 541 

Doll on Mount Etna, A. (Illustrated by T. Moran and C. T. Hill) E. Cavazza S94 

'f^ Doomed ! Picture, drawn by Albert E. Sterner 673 

J Dora Miller's Wonder Ball. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Lucy Lincoln Montgomery . . 922 

<~J Dragon's Story, The. (Illustrated by Oliver Herford) Tudor Jenks S16 

_ Eight-day Clocks. Verses Joel Stacy 66S 



\ Mary E. Hawkins 69S 



Escaping a Shower. Verse Malcolm Douglas 731 

Fairy Mirrors. Poem William H. Hayne 604 

Fern-SEED. Poem Harriet Prcscott Spofford. . . . 856 

First Americans, The. (Illustrated by the Author) F. S. Dellenbaugh 935 

First Rose of Summer, The. Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 629 

Fishing in the Seine. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) -Ideline Valentine Pond . . .696 

Five Cents' Worth of Fun. Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 709 

Flower Ladies Elizabeth Bisland 794 

Flower, The Story of the. Poem Harriet Prescott Spofford .... 752 

Frightened Fisherman, The. Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) J. G. Francis 523 

Goblin Storm, The : A Legend of Bigstoria. (Illustrated) Benjamin Webster . 60S 

Good-morning and Good-night. Verses Rose Evangeline Angel ... .631 

Grandpapa's Coat. (Illustrated by G. W. Edwards and F. H. Lungren). . . .Alice Maude Ewell 643 

Great Procession, The. Poem Harriet Prescott Spofford . . . 906 

Gun at New York HARBOR, A Big. Picture, from a photograph by Rob- 
ert L. Bracklow 

Happy Clovers, The. Poem. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies) Helen Gray Cone 593 

Helen Keller. (Illustrated from photographs) .Florence Howe Hall 834 

Hemlock-peelers, The Ernest Ingersoll. 590 

Hidden Homes. (Illustrated by the Author) Anna Botsford Comstock ... 605 

His Majesty the King. Verses N. P. Babcock 537 

How a Battle is Sketched. (Illustrated by the Author) Theodore R. Davis 661 

How Did They Come There? (Illustrated) Anne Bigelow Day 634 

How I Saw " Old Carolus." (Illustrated by the Author) George Wharton Edwards. . . 563 

How Johnny-Jump-up Turned Into a Pansy. Jingle Jessie M. Anderson 555 

How Mattie Went to a Meeting, and What Came of It. (Illus- 
trated by A. B. Davies) 

How Polly and Peter Keep House. Verses Dora Read Goodale ... 673 

Hum-um-um. Verses .Margaret Eytinge 551 

In the Bloom of May'. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller Sprague 527 

In the Hay-loft. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson ... 484 

Into the October Woods. Picture, drawn by F. H. Lungren S93 

Invitation, An. Verse. (Illustrated by Albertine Randall Wheelan) Tudor Jenks 756 

Japan, The Child OF Modern. (Illustrated from a photograph) Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore. . . 670 

Jingles 501, 523, 555, 695, 715, 731, 790, 868, 935 

Journey, The. Verses. (Illustrated by Laura C. Hills) L. Frank Tooker 920 

Keller, Helen (Illustrated from photographs) Florence Howe Hall 834 

King's Dust, The. Poem Harriet Prescott Spofford .... 585 

Laetitia and the Redcoats. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Lillian L. Price 687 

Lamb that Could n't Keep Up, The. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary Hallock Foote S03 

" Land of Nod " on a Plantation, The Octave Thanet 529 

La Tour d'Auvergne. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) /]/. C. Harrison 533 

Lawn Party, A. Picture, drawn by F. H. Lungren 843 

Little Florentine Lady, A. (Illustrated from photographs) Eleanor C. Le-wis S13 

Little Menan Light. (Illustrated by the Author) George Wharton Edwards. . . 724 

Little Persian Princess, The. (Illustrated by A. Brenon) Mary E. Wilkins 757 

Little Pine-tree, The. Poem Eudora S. Bumstead 510 

Little To-bo. (Illustrated) Rossiter Johnson 602 

Little Young Man in Gold, The. Verses. (Illustrated by C T. Hill) . .5. Isadore Miner 629 

Lost Opportunity, A. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Tudor Jenks 502 

Louis the Resolute. (Illustrated by II. A. Ogden and from photographs). .Harriet Taylor Upton 653 

Love. Poem Harriet Prescott Spofford . . . 690 

Make-Believe Elizabeth Robins Fennel) '. . . . 901 

Making of a Great Steel Gun, The. (Illustrated by J. W. Beatty) G. F. Midler 913 

Mammy's Story. Verses Susan Archer Weiss 581 

Matter of Taste, A. Verses Esther B. Tiffany 692 

May Song, A. Poem. (Illustrated by A. B. Davies) Anna M. Pratt 528 

Harlan H. Ballard 617 



Me and Bruno. Picture, drawn by A. Brenon 545 

Mermaids and their Pets. Picture, drawn by Mildred Howells 716 

Midsummer Pirates. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Richard H. Davis 737 

Modern Harbor Defenses. (Illustrated) Lieut. IV. R. Hamilton S63 

Mother Goose Sonnets. (Illustrated by F. G. Attwood) Harriet S. Morgridge . . .S52, 944 

Mother Hubbard in Japanese Pictures 549 

Mutiny on a Gold-ship, A. (Illustrated by John Steeple Davis) Frances Stoughton Bailey . . . 762 

My Deer-hunts in the Adirondack^. (Illustrated by H. Sandham) Treadwell Walden 806 

My Dog. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) William Dudley Foalke 938 

My Petrified Bird's-nest. (Illustrated from a photograph) Harlan H. Ballard 627 

Nan's Criticism. Verses Cornelia Atiuood Pratt 610 

Narrow Escape, A. (Illustrated by W. H. Drake) Myra Goodwin Plants 693 

National Flower, The. Poem Lucy Larcom 868 

Necklace, The Value of an Egyptian Girl's Gold. (Illustrated) Charles S. Robinson 732 

Nell's Fairy-tale. Poem. (Illustrated by the Author) Oliver Herford 791 

Not a Fair Game. (Illustrated) Charles Barnard 691 

Not a Lively Book. Picture, drawn by Mary Hallock Foote 5S0 

No-when and No-where. Poem Helen Tliayer Hutcheson .... 484 

Old Quarrel, An. (Illustrated by Katharine Pyle) Frances Courtenay Baylor. . . 512 

On Appledore. Verses. (Illustrated by C. D. Gibson) Willis Boyd Allen 889 

On the Farm. Verses. (Illustrated by A. R. Wheelan) Francis Randall 686 

"On the Road to London Town." Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author). A. Brenon , 695 

Page of Boats, A. Pictures, drawn by H. L. Bridwell 951 

Petrified Bird's-nest, My. (Illustrated from a photograph) Harlan H. Ballard 627 

Photography, Some Applications of Amateur. (Illustrated from photo- ( 

graphs I 

Pictures. Drawn by A. Brenon 524, 545, 612, 622, 669, 695, 76S, 793, 926 

Pictures. 511, 524, 527, 545, 549, 553, 555, 558, 5S0, 600, 612, 622, 669, 673, 709, 711, 716, 76S, 7S6, 793, 795, 

823, 833, 843, 867, 875, S93, 904, 919, 926, 951, 953 

Portrait, A. Verse Mary E. U'ilkins 745 

Queer Pet, A. (Illustrated from pictures by the Author) E. H. Barbour 525 

Rain-harp, The. Poem Frank Dempster Sherman . . . 736 

Redbreast's Ride. Verses. (Illustrated by George Wharton Edwards) .... Esther B. Tiffany 500 

Ripe Scholar, A. (Illustrated by the Author) William Ludwell Sheppard . . 623 

Road-runner, The. (Illustrated) C. C. Haskins 766 

Sad Reason for Tears, A. Verses Eudora S. Bumstead 491 

Seaside Flowers. Poem. (Illustrated) Celia Thaxter 5SS 

Shag Back Panther, The. (Illustrated by C. T. Hill) Rowland E. Robinson 769 

Sketches at the Dog Show. Picture, drawn by J. Stuart Travis 711 

Small and Early. Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Tudor Penis 684 

Soap-bubbles. (Illustrated from a photograph) Thomas W. Chittenden 714 

Soap-bubbles. Jingle . .-• .'/• M. D. 715 

" Soft " Step, The. Pictures, drawn by E. W. Kemble 919 

Soldiers' Burial Ground, The. Poem . . .Helen Thayer Hutcheson. . . . 4S4 

Soldier's Return, The. Picture, drawn by F. H. Lungren S23 

Some Applications of Amateur Photography. (Illustrated from photo- 

Song of the Caged Canary, The. Poem Helen Thayer Hutcheson . . . 4S3 

South Wind, The. Poem Charles B. Going S19 

Sprint-runner, The. Verses Poel Stacy 532 

Stanley's Magic Book David A'er 611 

Story of Laura Bridgman, The. (Illustrated) Poseph Pastrow 746 

Story of the Flower, The. Poem Harriet Frcscott Spofford . . . . 752 

Story of Turk, The. (Illustrated by James C. Beard and others.) F. LL. TJiroop S57 

Strange Night-watchman, A David A'er 850 

Summer Holiday Thoughts. Poem Charles B. Going 7S6 

Sweet Peas. Verses. (Illustrated by Oliver Herford) Mildred Hcnvells 776 

Harlan H. Ballard. 617 



Teddy and the Wolf Tudor Jenks 586 

Teddy O'Rourke. Verses Malcolm Doug/as 905 

Ten Little Monkeys. Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) Charles Howard Johnson ... . 555 

They Have Costumes, But No Parts. Picture, drawn by Rose Mueller > 

Sprague > " * 

Three Blind Mice. Picture, drawn by Frank Drake 558 

Three Little Astrologers. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) A. D. Blas/ifield 554 

Turk, The Story of. (Illustrated by James C. Beard and others) F. H. Throop S57 

Value of an Egyptian Girl's Gold Necklace, The. (Illustrated) Charles S. Robinson 732 

Very Conceited Little Man, A. Verses. (Illustrated by R, B. Birch) . Malcolm Douglas 590 

Water-lilies. Picture, drawn by A. B. Davies 795 

Wee World of My Own, A. Poem. (Illustrated) Helen Thayer Hutchison .... 571 

" We Sail the Ocean Blue." Picture, drawn by A. B. Davies 833 

Where Salmon are Plentiful. (Illustrated from a photograph) Julian Ralph 942 

W. Jenks's Express. (Illustrated by C. D. Gibson) Thomas A. Janvier 824 

Yoshi Hito, Haru no Miya, the Child of Modern Japan. (Illustrated \ 

c , . 1 . c Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore . . . 670 

from a photograph) ^ ' 


"The Baby's Sunny Corner," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing Title-page of Volume — "The First Holiday of 
the Summer," by A. B. Davies, facing page 563 — " Off We Set in the Great Coach," by G. W. Edwards, facing 
page 643 — "The First Ride," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 723 — " It Took No Notice of All the Children's 
Care," by Mary Hallock Foote, facing page 803 — " The Hounds of the Count de Barral," after the picture by L. 
G. Jadin, facing page 883. 


Plays and Music. 

( Words by Mary J. Jacques ) 

Housekeeping Songs. (Illustrated by Miss L. B. Humphrey) j Musk by The ' resa c Holmcs \ 

Song of Sifting 550 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit. (Illustrated.) 

Introduction — When the Apple Blossoms Stir — A Very Knowing Phoebe Bird — A Wise Reply — South 
American Indians — A Hanging Matter — Who Knows ? — Spring Lassitude (picture), 552 ; Introduction — 

Talking Dolls — The Russian Alphabet — A "Nine" Year Again — Those Ice-tanks — " Pansies are for 
Thoughts" — The ^Esthetic Wasps (illustrated), 632. 

From Our Scrap-book. (Illustrated.) 

How Rockets Are Made Lieut. II'. R. Hamilton 712 

Pussy in the Witness-box • Thomas Ii~. Chittenden 712 

Won By a Bird Selected . 713 

Cornish Lullaby Selected 792 

A Ducal Home for the Blind Ella F. Mosby 792 

An Athletic Spelling Lesson Selected 793 

A Scrap of Sunshine. Picture, drawn by A. L. Brenon 793 

Water Life and How to See It Julian Ralph 874 

The Truthful Fisherman Henry Tyrrell 875 

The Sportsman and the Alligator. Picture, drawn by E. W. Kemble 875 

Electricity for Snakes Selected 952 

Minute Screws Selected 952 

Sand-drifts Selected 952 

A Country Coroner's Verdict Selected 952 

Quick and Strong Selected 952 

A Story That Tells Itself. Pictures, drawn by E. de v. Vermort , 953 

For Very Little Folk. 

Tiger. (Illustrated by Louis Ritter) Elizabeth F. Parker 710 

The Letter-box. (Illustrated) 556, 636, 717, 796, 876, 956 

The Riddle-box. (Illustrated) - 559, 639, 719, 799, 879, 959 


Vol. XVI. MAY, 1SS9. No. 


By Helen Thayer Hutcheson. 

O MY happy Islands, O my happy Islands, 

O my happy Islands where the south winds blow ! 

Lying sea-encircled, steeped in sunny silence, 
O my happy Islands that I shall never know ! 

O my happy Islands, O my happy Islands, 

O my happy Islands that lie anear the sun ! 
Purple seas are darkling, murmuring and sparkling; 

Round my happy Islands the shining ripples run. 

O my happy Islands, O my happy Islands, 

O my happy Islands that I have never known, 
Where the ripe seed falls down in the forest shadows, 

And the strange flower blossoms that no hand hath sown ! 

There my mate hath waited, in a dream belated, 

Lingering belated in the shadow of a palm. 
In a land sun-haunted, with the voice of seas enchanted, 

In my happy Islands, lost in seas of calm ! 

In my island mazes hang the purple hazes. 

Round my island beaches runs the rippling gleam. 
There 's my love belated, while I go unmated; 
Warble, warble softly, lest I break her dream ! 
Copyright, 18S9, by The Century Co. All rights reserved. 


If it happened so that I felt inclined, 

And nobody hindered me of my mind, 

Shall I tell you what I would do, my dear? 

I would find some lost, forgotten old Year, — 

Some dull old Year, all dead and dry, 

With nothing in 't to remember it by ; 

Some Year uncalendared, lost to fame, 

That nobody lived in to give it a name, 

That went unrecorded from green to sere, 

And never knew that it was a Year ; 

And out of that Year I would take a Day, 

Not too rosy and not too gray, — 

Some Day when Fate, aweary of doom, 

Fell fast asleep by the side of her loom, 

And left it a mere tarnished circle of sun, 

Without a chance in it to trip upon ; — 

And on that Day of a dateless Year, 

I should not hate you, nor hold you dear, 

I should go on a journey, and none should know 

No one should ask, and no one should care. 
I would find some ship that had lain alone, 
Long becalmed in a Sea unknown, 
And the ship in a lazy course should run. 
To some Land that is nowhere under the sun. 
I would have no wind to fret the sail. 
I would have no oar when the wind should fail. 
But a tide should ripple along the keel, 
A slow, warm tide that she scarce could feel, 
And so we should float, in nobody's sight, 
Wrapt in a wavering sort of light, 
That is neither sunlight, starlight, nor shade, 
But just the kind that never was made. 
And when we had come to that Doubtful Land, 
The Land that is nowhere, you understand, 
How long I should linger, or what I should do, 
Or whether I ever should come back to you, 
In that long Day of a dateless Year, 
— Why, how can I tell you all that, my dear? 


In a white, eternal silence 
To the calling of the Roll. 

And the light rains beat reveille, 
And the winds their bugles blow, — 

As they keep their stern, still bivouac 
'Neath the white tents of the snow. 

And no sentinel doth guard them, 

For they fear not any foes, 
And their pass-word is the secret 

Of the land that no man knows. 


Up in the hay-loft — kitten and I ! 
With a window open to the sky, 
Curtained with boughs of the chestnut-trees 
That toss and sway in the cool west breeze. 

The dome of the sky with a cloud is lined, 
And the rain comes down when it has a mind, 
Pelting the leaves of the chestnut-tree : 
Never the rain can touch kitten and me. 

Up in the hay-loft — kitten and I ! 
The hay behind us is mountain high; 
The beams across are dusty enough ; 
Darkness broods in the peak of the roof. 

In pearly lines the daylight falls 
Through the chinks of the boarded walls; 
The air is fragrant with clover dried, 
Brake and daisies and things beside. 

Oueer little spiders drop down from on high ; 
Softly we welcome them — kitten and I ! 
Swallows chirp in a lazy strain 
Between the showers of the summer rain. 

Let the rain come down from the clouded sky, 
We 're quiet and cosy — kitten and I ! 
We muse and purr and think out a rhyme, 
And never know what has become of time. 

THERE 'S a camp upon a hill-top 
Pitched in many a gleaming line, 

And above that still encampment 
Droops the banner of the pine. 

Never clang of lifted weapon, 

Oath, nor jest, nor haughty boast, 

Never song of martial measure 
Breaks the stillness of the host. 

But the name of every hero 

Answers from the carven scroll, 

People down there in the world below, 
They toil and moil and get dinner and sew ; 
Up in the hay we lazily lie ; 
We have no troubles — kitten and I ! 

Kitten purrs and stretches and winks, 

She does n't speak, but I know what she thinks : 

Never a king had a throne so high, 
Never a bird had a cosier nest ; 
There is much that is good, but we have the 
best — 

Kitten, kitten and I ! 

Helen Thayer Hutcheson, 


By Joel Chandler Harris. 

Chapter III. 

LuCIEN and Lillian, cuddled together in the 
bottom of their boat, were soon fast asleep. In 
dreams of home their loneliness and their troubles 
were all forgotten. Sometimes in the starlight, 
sometimes in the dark shadows of the overhanging 
trees, the boat drifted on. At last, toward morn- 
ing, it was caught in an eddy and carried nearer 
the bank, where the current was almost imper- 
ceptible. Here the clumsy old bateau rocked and 
swung, sometimes going lazily forward, and then 
as lazily floating back again. 

As the night faded away into the dim gray of 
morning, the bushes above the boat were thrust 
softly aside, and a black face looked down upon 
the children. Then the black face disappeared as 
suddenly as it came. After a while it appeared 
again. It was not an attractive face. In the dim 
light it seemed to look down on the sleeping 
children with a leer that was almost hideous. It 
was the face of a woman. Around her head was a 
faded red handkerchief, tied in a fantastic fashion, 
and as much of her dress as could be seen was 
ragged, dirty, and greasy. She was not pleasant 
to look upon, but the children slept on uncon- 
scious of her presence. 

Presently the woman came nearer. On the 
lower bank a freshet had deposited a great heap 
of sand, which was now dry and soft. The woman 
sat down on this, hugging her knees with her 
arms, and gazed at the sleeping children long and 
earnestly. Then she looked up and down the 
river, but nothing was to be seen for the fog that 
lay on the water. She shook her head and mut- 
tered : 

"Hit's pizen down yer fer dem babies. Yit 
how I gwine git um out er dar? " 

She caught hold of the boat, turned it around, 
and, by means of the chain, drew it partially on 
the sand-bank. Then she lifted Lillian from the 
boat, wrapping the quilt closer about the child, 
carried her up the bank, and laid her beneath the 
trees where no dew had fallen. Returning, she 
lifted Lucien and placed him beside his sister. 
But the change aroused him. He raised himself 
on his elbow and rubbed his eyes. The negro 

woman, apparently by force of habit, slipped 
behind a tree. 

" Where am I ? " Lucien exclaimed, looking 
around in something of a fright. He caught sight 
of the frazzled skirt of the woman's dress. " Who 
is there behind that tree ? " he cried. 

" Nobody but me, honey — nobody ner nothin' 
but po' ole Crazy Sue. Don't be skeerd er me. 
I ain't nigh ez bad ez I looks ter be." 

It was now broad daylight, and Lucien could see 
that the hideous ugliness of the woman was caused 
by a burn on the side of her face and neck. 

"Was n't I in a boat?" 

" Yes, honey ; I brung you up yer fer ter keep 
de fog fum pizenin' you." 

" I dreamed the Bad Man had me," said Lucien, 
shivering at the bare recollection. 

" No, honey ; 't want nobody ner nothin' but 
po' ole Crazy Sue. De boat down dar on de sand- 
bank, an' yo' little sissy layin' dar soun' asleep. 
Whar in de name er goodness wuz you-all gwine, 
honey? " asked Crazy Sue, coming nearer. 

" We were going down the river hunting for 
Daddy Jake. He 's a runaway now. I reckon 
we '11 find him after a while." 

" Is you-all Marse Doc. Gaston' chillun ? " asked 
Crazy Sue, with some show of eagerness. 

" Why, of course we are," said Lucien. 

Crazy Sue's eyes fairly danced with joy. She 
clasped her hands together and exclaimed : 

" Lord, honey, I could shout, — I could des hol- 
ler and shout; but I ain't gwine do it. You stay 
right dar by yo' little sissy till I come back ; I 
want ter run an' make somebody feel good. Now, 
don't you move, honey. Stay right dar." 

With that Crazy Sue disappeared in the bushes. 
Lucien kept very still. In the first place, he was 
more than half frightened by the strangeness of 
his surroundings, and, in the second place, he was 
afraid his little sister would wake and begin to cry. 
He felt like crying a little himself, for he knew he 
was many miles from home, and he felt very cold 
and uncomfortable. Indeed, he felt very lonely 
and miserable ; but just when he was about to cry 
and call Daddy Jake, he heard voices near him. 
Crazy Sue came toward him in a half-trot, and be- 
hind her — close behind her — was Daddy Jake, 

4 s 5 




his face wreathed in smiles and his eyes swimming 
in tears. Lucien saw him and rushed toward him, 
and the old man stooped and hugged the boy to 
his black bosom. 

" Why, honey," he exclaimed, " whar de name 
er goodness you come f'um ? Bless you ! ef my 

They made so much fuss that they woke Lillian, 
and when she saw Daddy Jake she gave one little 
cry and leaped in his arms. This made Crazy Sue 
dance again, and she would have kept it up for a 
long time, but Randall suggested to Daddy Jake 
that the boat ought to be hauled ashore and hid- 


eyes wuz sore de sight un you would make um well. 
How you know whar yo' Daddy Jake is ? " 

" Me and sister started out to hunt you," said 
Lucien, whimpering a little, now that he had noth- 
ing to whimper for, " and I think you are mighty 
mean to run off and leave us-all at home." 

" Now you talkin', honey," said Daddy Jake, 
laughing in his old fashion. "I boun' I'm de 
meanes' ole nigger in de Nunited State. Yit, ef 
I 'd 'a' know'd you wuz gwine ter foller me up so 
close, I 'd 'a' fotch you vi id me, dat I would ! 
An' dar 's little Missy," he exclaimed, leaning over 
the little girl, " an' she 's a-sleepin' des ez natchul 
ez ef she wuz in her bed at home. What I tell you- 
all ? " he went on, turning to a group of negroes 
that had followed him, — Randall, Cupid, Isaiah, 
and others, — "What I tell you-all? Ain't I done 
bin' an' gone an' tole you dat deze chillun wuz de 
out-doin'est chillun on de top-side er de roun' 
worl' ? " 

The negroes — runaways all — laughed and 
looked pleased, and Crazy Sue fairly danced. 

den in the bushes. Crazy Sue stayed with the chil- 
dren, while the negro men went after the boat. 
They hauled it up the bank by the chain, and then 
they lifted and carried it several hundred yards 
away from the river, and hid it in the thick bushes 
and grass. 

"Now," said Daddy Jake, when they had re- 
turned to where they left the children, "we got 
ter git away f'um yer. Dey ain't no tellin' w'at 
gwine ter happen. Ef deze yer chillun kin slip up 
on us dis away w'at kin a grown man do ? " 

The old man intended this as a joke, but the 
others took him at his word, and were moving off. 
" Wait ! " he exclaimed. " De chillun bleeze ter 
go whar I go. Sue, you pick up little Missy dar, 
an' I '11 play hoss fer dish yer chap." 

Crazy Sue lifted Lillian in her arms, Daddy Jake 
stooped so that Lucien could climb up on his back, 
and then all took up their march for the middle 
of .Hudson's canebrake. Randall brought up the 
rear in order, as he said, to "stop up de holes." 

It was a narrow, slippery, and winding path in 



which the negroes trod — a path that a white man 
would have found difficult to follow. It seemed 
to lead in all directions; but, finally, it stopped on a 
knoll high and dry above the surrounding swamp. 
A fire was burning brightly, and the smell of fry- 
ing meat was in the air. On this knoll the run- 
away negroes had made their camp, and for safety 
they could not have selected a better place. 

It was not long before Crazy Sue had warmed 
some breakfast for the children. The negroes had 
brought the food they found in the boat, and Crazy 
Sue put some of the biscuits in a tin bucket, hung 
the bucket on a stick, and held it over the fire. 
Then she gave them some bacon that had been 
broiled on a stone, and altogether they made a 
hearty breakfast. 

During the morning most of the negro men 
stayed in the canebrake, some nodding and some 
patching their clothes, which were already full of 
patches. But after dinner, a feast of broiled fish, 
roasted sweet-potatoes, and ash-cake, they all 
went away, leaving Crazy Sue to take care of the 

" Nothin', honey ; I wuz des a-settin' yer a-study- 
in' an' a-studyin'. Lots er times I gits took dat 
a- way." 

" What are you studying about ?" said Lucien. 

" 'Bout folks. I wuz des a-studyin' 'bout folks, 
an' 'bout how come I whar I is, w'en I oughter be 
somers else. W'en I set down dis a-way, I gits dat 
turrified in de min' dat I can't stay on de groun' 
sca'cely. Look like I want ter rise up in de ele- 
ments an' fly." 

"What made you run away?" Lucien asked 
with some curiosity. 

" Well, you know, honey," said Crazy Sue, after 
a pause, " my marster ain't nigh ez good ter his 
niggers ez yo' pa is ter his'n. 'T ain't dat my mars- 
ter is any mo' strick, but look like hit fret 'im ef 
he see one er his niggers scttin' down anywheres. 
Well, one time, long time ago, I had two babies, 
an' dey wuz twins, an' dey wuz des 'bout ez likely 
little niggers ez you ever did see. De w'lte folks 
had me at de house doin' de washin' so I could be 
where I kin nurse de babies. One time I wuz 



children. After the men had all gone, the woman 
sat with her head covered with her arms. She sat 
thus for a long time. After a while Lucien went 
to her and put his hand on her shoulder. 
" What 's the matter?" he asked. 

settin' in my house nursin' un um, an' 
while I settin' dar I went fast ter sleep. 
'-. How long I sot dar 'sleep, de Lord only 

knows, but w'en I woked up, marster wuz 
stan'in' in de do', watchin' me. He ain't 
say nothin', yit I knowed dat man wuz mad. He des 
turn on his heel an' walk away. I let you know I 
put dem babies down an' hustled out er dat house 
mighty quick. 

" Well, sir, dat night de foreman come 'roun' 

4 88 



an' tole mc dat I mus' go ter de fiel' de ncx' 
mornin'. Soon cz he say dat, 1 up an' went ter de 
big house an' ax marster w'at I gwine do wid de 
babies ef I went ter de fiel'. He stood an' look at 
me, he did, an' den he writ a note out er his 
pocket-book an' tol' me ter ban' it ter de overseer. 
Dat w'at I done dat ve'y night, an' de overseer, he 
took an' read de note, an' den he up an' say dat 
I mus' go wid de hoe-han's, way over ter de two- 
mile place. 

" I went, kaze I bleeze ter go ; yit all day long, 
whiles I wuz hoein' I kin year dem babies cryin'. 
Look like sometimes dey wuz right at me, an' den 
ag'in look like dey wuz way off yander. I kep' on 
a-goin' an' I kep' on a-hoein', an' de babies kep' 
on a-famishin'. Dey des fade away, an' bimeby 
dey died, bofe un um on de same day. On dat 
day I had a fit an' fell in de fier, an' dat how come 
I burnt up so. 

"Look like," said the woman, marking on the 
ground with her bony forefinger — " look like I kin 
year dem babies cryin' yit, an' dat de reason folks 
call me Crazy Sue, kaze I kin year um cryin' an' 
yuther folks can't. 1 'm mighty glad dey can't, 
too, kaze it 'ud break der heart." 

'• Why did n't you come and tell Papa about 
it? " said Lucien, indignantly. 

"Ah, Lord, honey!" exclaimed Crazy Sue, 
" yo' pa is a mighty good man, an' a mighty good 
doctor, but he ain't got no medicine w'at could 'a' 
kyored me an' my marster." 

In a little while Daddy Jake put in an appear- 
ance, and the children soon forgot Crazy Sue's 
troubles, and began to think about going home. 

" Daddy Jake," said Lucien, " when are you 
going to take us back home ? " 

" I want to go right now," said Lillian. 

Daddy Jake scratched his head and thought the 
matter over. 

"Dey ain't no use talkin'," said he, "I got ter 
carry you back an' set you down in sight er de 
house, but how I gwine do it an' not git kotched ? 
Dat w'at troublin' me." 

" Why, Papa ain't mad." said Lucien. " I 
heard him tell that mean old. overseer he had a 
great mind to take his buggy whip to him for hit- 
ting you." 

" Ain't dat man dead? " exclaimed Daddy Jake 
in amazement. 

" No, he ain't." said Lucien. " Papa drove 
him off the place." 

" Well, I be blest ! " said the old man with a 
chuckle. " W'at kinder head you reckon dat w'ite 
man got? — Honey." he went on, growing serious 
again, " is you sholy s/w dat man ain't dead ? " 

"Didn't I see him after you went away? 
Did n't I hear Papa tell him to go away ? Did n't 

I hear Papa tell Mamma he wished you had broken 
his neck ? Did n't I hear Papa tell Mamma that 
you were a fool for running away ? " Lucien flung 
these questions at Daddy Jake with an emphasis 
that left nothing to be desired. 

" Well," said Daddy Jake, " dat mus' be so, an' 
dat bein' de case, we '11 des start in de mornin' an' 
git home ter supper. We '11 go over yander ter 
Marse Meredy Ingram's an' borry his carriage an' 
go home in style. I boun' you, dey '11 all be glad 
to see us." 

Daddy Jake was happy once more. A great 
burden had been taken from his mind. The other 
negroes when they came in toward night seemed to 
be happy, too, because the old man could go back 
home ; and there was not one but would have 
swapped places with him. Randall was the last 
to come, and he brought a big fat chicken. 

" I wuz comin' 'long cross de woods des now." 
he said, winking his eye and shaking his head at 
Daddy Jake, "an', bless gracious, dis chicken flew'd 
right in my han'. I say ter myse'f, I did, ' Ole 
lady, you mus' know we got comp'ny at our house,' 
an' den I clamped down on 'er, an' yer she is. 
Now, 'bout dark, I '11 take 'er up yander an' make 
Marse Ingram's cook fry 'er brown fer deze chillun, 
an' I '11 make 'er gimme some milk." 

Crazy Sue took the chicken, which had already 
been killed, wet its feathers thoroughly, rolled it 
around in the hot embers, and then proceeded to 
pick and clean it. 

Randall's programme was carried out to the let- 
ter. Mr. Meredith Ingram's cook fried the chicken 
for him and put in some hot biscuit for good meas- 
ure, and the milker gave him some fresh milk, 
which she said would not be missed. 

The children had a good supper, and they would 
have gone to sleep directly afterward, but the 
thought of going home with Daddy Jake, kept 
them awake. Randall managed to tell Daddy 
Jake, out of hearing of the children, that Dr. Gas- 
ton and some of his negroes had been seen at 
Ross's mill that morning. 

"Well," said Daddy Jake, "I bleeze ter beat 
marster home. Ef he go back dar widout de chil- 
lun. my mistiss '11 drap right dead on de no'." This 
was his only comment. 

Around the fire the negroes laughed and joked, 
and told their adventures. Lillian felt comfortable 
and happy, and as for Lucien, he felt himself a 
hero. He had found Daddy Jake, and now he 
was going to carry him back home. 

Once when there was a lull in the talk, Lillian 
asked why the frogs made so much fuss. 
. " I speck it 's kaze dey er mad wid Mr. Rabbit," 
said Crazy Sue. " Dey er tryin' der best ter drive 
'im outen de swamp." 



"What are they mad with the Rabbit for?" 
asked Lucien, thinking there might be a story in 
the explanation. 

" Hit 's one er dem ole-time fusses," said Crazy 
Sue. " Hit 's most too ole ter talk about." 

"Don't you know what the fuss was about?" 
asked Lucien. 

" Well," said Crazy Sue, " one time Mr. Rabbit 
an' Mr. Coon live close ter one anudder in de 
same neighborhoods. How dey does now, I ain't 
a-tellin' you ; but in dem times dey want no hard 
feelin's 'twix' am. Dey des went 'long like two 
ole cronies. Mr. Rabbit, he wuz a fisherman, and 
Mr. Coon, he wuz a fisherman " 

"And put 'em in pens," said Lillian, remem- 
bering an old rhyme she had heard. 

" No, honey, dey ain't no Willium-Come-Trim- 
bletoe in dis. Mr. Rabbit an' Mr. Coon wuz bofe 
fishermans, but Mr. Rabbit, he kotch fish, an' Mr. 
Coon, he fished fer frogs. Mr. Rabbit, he had 
mighty good luck, an' Mr. Coon, he had mighty 
bad luck. Mr. Rabbit, he got fat an' slick, an' 
Mr. Coon, he got po' an' sick. 

" Hit went on dis a-way tell one day Mr. Coon 
meet Mr. Rabbit in de big road. Dey shook han's 
dey did, an' den Mr. Coon, he 'low : 

" ' Brer Rabbit, whar you git sech a fine chance 
er fish ? ' 

" Mr. Rabbit laugh an' say : ' I kotch um outen 
de river, Brer Coon. All I got ter do is ter bait 
my hook,' sezee. 

" Den Mr. Coon shake his head an' 'low : ' Den 
how come I ain't kin ketch no frogs ? ' 

" Mr. Rabbit sat down in de road an' scratched 
fer fleas, an' den he 'low : ' Hit 's kaze you done 
make um all mad, Brer Coon. One time in de 
dark er de moon, you slipped down ter de branch 
an' kotch de ole King Frog ; an' ever sence dat 
time, w'enever you er passin' by, you kin year um 
sing out, fus' one an' den anudder — Yer he come ! 
Dar he goes ! Hit 'im in de eye ; hit 'im in de eye ! 
Mash 'im an' smash 'im ; mash 'im an' smash 'im .' 
Yasser, dat w'at dey say. I year um constant, 
Brer Coon, and dat des w'at dey say.' 

" Den Mr. Coon up an' say : ' Ef dat de way 
dey gwine on, how de name er goodness kin I 
ketch um, Brer Rabbit ? I bleeze ter have sum- 
p'n ter eat fer me an' my fambly connection.' 

" Mr. Rabbit sorter grin in de cornder er his 
mouf, an' den he say : ' Well, Brer Coon, bein' ez 
you bin so sociable 'long wid me, an' ain't never 
showed yo' tootles vv'en I pull yo' tail. I '11 des 
whirl in an' he'p you out.' 

" Mr. Coon, he sav : ' Thanky, thanky-do, Brer 

" Mr. Rabbit hung his fish on a tree lim', an' 

say : ' Now, Brer Coon, you bleeze ter do des like 
I tell you.' 

" Mr. Coon 'lowed dat he would cf de Lord 
spared 'im. 

"Den Mr. Rabbit say: 'Now, Brer Coon, you 
des rack down yander, an' git on de big san'-bar 
'twix' de river and de branch. W'en you git dar 
you mus' stagger like you sick, an' den you mus' 
whirl roun' an' roun' an' drap down like you dead. 
Atter you drap down, you mus' sorter jerk yo' legs 
once er twice, an' den you mus' lay right still. Ef 
fly light on yo' nose, let 'im stay dar. Don't move ; 
don't wink yo' eye ; don't switch yo' tail. Des lay 
right dar, an' 't won't be long 'fo' you year fum me. 
Yit don't you move till I give de word.' 

"Mr. Coon, he paced off, he did, an' done des 
like Mr. Rabbit tol' 'im. He staggered 'roun' on de 
san'-bank, an' den he drapped down dead. Atter 
so long a time, Mr. Rabbit come lopin' 'long, an' 
soon 's he git dar, he squall out, ' Coon dead ! ' 
Dis rousted de frogs, an' dey stuck dey heads up 
fer ter see w'at all de rippit wuz 'bout. One great 
big green un up an' holler, W'at de matter? W'at 
de matter? He talk like he got a bad col'. 

" Mr. Rabbit 'low: ' Coon dead ! ' 

' ' Frog say : Don't believe it ! Don't believe it .' 

" 'N'er frog say: Yes, he is .' Yes, he is .' Little 
bit er one say : No, he ain't.' A'o, he ain't .' 

" Dey kep' on 'sputin' an' 'sputin', tell bimeby 
hit look like all de frogs in de neighborhoods wuz 
dar. Mr. Rabbit look like he ain't a-yearin' ner 
a-keerin' w'at dey do er say. He sot dar in de 
san' like he gwine in mournin' fer Mr. Coon. De 
Frogs kep' gittin' closer an' closer. Mr. Coon, 
he ain't move. W'en a fly 'd git on 'im, Mr. 
Rabbit, he 'd bresh 'im off. 

"Bimeby he 'low: ' Ef you want ter git 'im 
outen de way, now 's yo' time, Cousin Frogs. Des 
whirl in an' bury him deep in de san'.' 

" Big ole Frog say: How we gwine ter do it? 
How we gwine ter do it ? 

" Mr. Rabbit 'low : ' Dig de san' out fum under 
'im an' let 'im down in de hole.' 

" Den de Frogs dey went ter work sho nuff. 
Dey mus' 'a' bin a hunderd un um, an' dey make 
dat san' fly, mon. Mr. Coon, he ain't move. De 
Frogs, dey dig an' scratch in de san' tell atter 
while dey had a right smart hole, an' Mr. Coon 
wuz down in dar. 

" Bimeby big Frog holler : Dis deep miff? Dis 
deep naff? 

" Mr. Rabbit 'low : ' Kin you jump out?' 

" Big Frog say : Yes, I kin ! Yes, J kin .' 

" Mr. Rabbit say : ' Den 't ain't deep nuff.' 

" Den de Frogs dey dig an' dey dig, tell, bimeby, 
big Frog say : Dis deep miff? Dis deep miff? 

" Mr. Rabbit 'low : ' Kin you jump out? ' 




Big Frog say : / des kin .' I des kin . 
Mr. Rabbit say : ' Dig it deeper.' 


" De Frogs keep on diggin' tell, bimeby, big 
Frog holler out : Dis deep miff? Dis deep miff? 

" Mr. Rabbit 'low : ' Kin you jump out? ' 

" Big Frog say : No, I can't! No, I can't ! Come 
fie'p me .' Come he'p me .' 

" Mr Rabbit bust out laughin', and holler out: 

"'Rise up, Sandy, ax' 

GIT YO' MEAT ! ' an' Mr. 
Coon riz." 

Lucienand Lillian laughed " ^ 
heartily at this queer story, 
especially the curious imita- 
tion of frogs both big and 
little that Crazy Sue gave. 
Lucien wanted her to tell 
more stories, but Daddy- 
Jake said it was bedtime ; 
and the children were soon 
sound asleep. 

The next morning Daddy 
Jake had them up betimes. 
Crazy Sue took Lillian in her 
arms, and Daddy Jake took 
Lucien on his back. As they 
had gone into the cane- 
brake, so they came out. 
Randall and some of the 
other negroes wanted to 
carry Lillian, but Crazy Sue 
would n't listen to them. 

She had brought the little girl in, she said, and 
she was going to carry her out. Daddy Jake, fol- 
lowed by Crazy Sue, went in the direction of Mr. 
Meredith Ingram's house. It was on a hill, more 

than a mile from the river, and was in a grove of 
oak-trees. As they were making their way through 
a plum orchard, not far 
from the house, Crazy- 
Sue stopped. 

" Brer Jake." she said, 
"dis is all de fur 1 'm 
gwine. I 'm 'mos' too 
close tcr dat house now. 
You take dis baby an' 
let dat little man walk. 
'T ain't many steps ter 
vvhar you gwine." Crazy 
- Sue wrung Daddy Jake's 
hand, stooped and kissed 
the children, and with a 
"God bless you all! "dis- 
appeared in the bushes, 
and none of the three 
ever saw her again. 

Mr. Meredith Ingram 

was standing out in his 

pipe before breakfast. He 

when Daddy 

front yard, enjoyin 

was talking to himself and laughin 

Jake and the children approached. 

" Howdy, Mars' Meredy," said the old negro, 
taking off his hat and bowing as politely as he 
could with the child in his arms. Mr. Ingram 



looked at him through his spectacles and over 

" Ain't that Gaston's Jake ? " he asked, after he 
had examined the group. 




"Yasser," said Daddy Jake, " an' deze is my 
marster's little chillun." 

Mr. Ingram took his pipe out of his mouth. 

'• Why, what in the world ! — Why, what under 
the sun ! — Well, if this does n't beat — why. what 
in the nation ! " — Mr. Ingram failed to find words 
to express his surprise. 

Daddy Jake, however, made haste to tell Mr. 
Ingram that the little ones had drifted down the 
river in a boat, that he had found them, and wished 
to get them home just as quickly as he could. 

" My marster bin huntin' fer uin, suh," said the 
old negro, " and I want ter beat him home, kaze 
ef he go dar widout deze chillun my mistiss '11 be a 
dead 'oman — she cert'n'y will, suh." 

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed Mr. Ingram. 
"If this don't beat — why, of course, I '11 send 
them home. I '11 go with 'em myself. Of course 
I will. Well, if this does n't — George! hitch up 
the carriage. Fetch out Ben Bolt and Rob Roy, 
and go and get your breakfast. Jake, you go 
and help him, and I '11 take these chaps in the 
house and warm 'em up. Come on, little ones. 
We '11 have something to eat and then we '11 go 
right home to Pappy and Mammy." They went 
in, Mr. Ingram muttering to himself, " Well, if 
this does n't beat " 

After breakfast Mr. Ingram, the children, Daddy- 
Jake, and George, the driver, were up and away, 
as the fox-hunters say. Daddy Jake sat on the 
driver's seat with George, and urged on the horses. 
They traveled rapidly, and it is well they did, for 
when they came in sight of the Gaston place, 

Daddy Jake saw his master entering the avenue 
that led to the house. The old negro put his 

hands to his mouth and called so loudly that 
the horses jumped. Dr. Gaston heard him and 
stopped, and in a minute more had his children 
in his arms, and that night there was a happy 
family in the Gaston house. But nobody was any 
happier than Daddy Jake. 


By Eudora S. Bumstead. 

There sat a silly little'lass 

Upon a bed of posies, 
Her tears bedewed the summer grass 

And twinkled on the roses. 
Now, why is all this grief? " I said, 
" And all this doleful crying ? " 
The maiden sadly shook her head, 

And answered, softly sighing. 
All yesterday I wept." said she, 
And then this morning I could see 

'T was quite without a reason ; 
So now I mourn the stupid way 
In which I spent that lovely day — 
The fairest of the season ! 

O dear — O dear — O dear — O dear — 
The fairest of the season ! " 

So there she sat, the silly lass, 

And nothing could content her ; 
The roses and the summer grass 

No grain of comfort lent her ; 
Nor any word that I could say 

Would ease her doleful crying. 
I can but weep for yesterday," 

She answered, sadly sighing: 
'T was all so foolish — that I see — 
And that is not the worst," said she : 
" 'T is not my greatest sorrow ; 
I can not eat — I can not sleep — 
And all the day I weep, and weep — 

For fear I '11 weep to-morrow ! 

O dear — O dear — O dear — O dear - 

I fear I '11 weep to-morrow ! " 


By Mary Hartwell Catherwood. 

Chapter XV. 


That Saturday dawn, while Alvine and Mother 
Ursule were trudging toward Ste. Anne, Bruno 
Charland and the Algonquin walked the same 
load, but in an opposite direction. Where Fran- 
cois found the boy, and where they bivouacked 
together, the Indian did not afterward tell. Bruno 
trod the cool road with sprightly feet, putting the 
Indian's moccasins to unwonted effort to keep in 
line with him. A glistering white hat of rough 
straw caricatured Francois's copper face. He 
looked as if somebody had set the hat on him in 
derision. But Bruno's black poll was bare, and 
roughened with bits of dry leaves among which he 
had slept. 

There was a sweet odor in the air like that which 
comes from the gummy buds of the balm-tree, and 
every bird was awake up the mountain. 

Bruno carried his accordion under one arm, and 
carefully, without jarring their delicate structure, 
half a dozen Indian pipes. They were very per- 
fect, short-stemmed ones, and to keep them from 
turning black with decay from the warmth of his 
fingers he had stuck the stems in wet river-sand 
which he carried in a hollow piece of bark. The 
Indian pipe must be the rarest and most beautiful 
of sudden growths. It springs in a night, on high 
land, near beech shade. It is a flower without 
petals, a perfect bowl bent over on a leafless stem, 
mother-of-pearl in color, exquisitely clear. 

As these companions stalked along, silent or 
speaking short occasional sentences, even Fran- 
cois had no suspicion that between them and the 
rising sun a figure was toiling after them on patient 
moccasined feet, stopping to rest by shrines, but 
for the most part keeping in sight. 

The Algonquin intended to spend half a day on 
the ten miles which lay between that part of the 
road and the bridge over Montmorenci river. To 
this end he induced Bruno to sit down by one of 
the running springs and eat a long breakfast with 
him. Francois had provisions in a leather bag 
which he carried behind his shoulders. He felt it 
necessary only to keep the boy in sight, and Bruno 
was willingly going toward the Montmorenci. 

" I am going to finish running my slide there," 
he informed Francois. 

''That no slide," said Francois. "That falls. 
Logs go jam — every way — knock all to pieces." 

" I have to finish my slide," insisted Bruno 

" I show you where that slide is, one these days. 
That slide in Ottawa. Hundred — two hundred 
mile — maybe more. When I go back see my old 
mother I show you that slide." 

Bruno heard him inattentively. 

" Falls, Montmorenci," repeated Francois. 

" Did you ever go lumbering? " inquired Bruno, 
fixing the Indian with his eye. 

" No," said Francois, disparagingly, " I hunt. 
Lumber — that work for Frenchman." 

"Yba don't know how to drive logs," observed 
the boy. " Up above the gorge in Montmorenci 
river I have three logs fastened ready for a slide. 
The trees are bad up there. I dragged them so 
far it made my knees tremble. So I left them 
there, to run the slide with, another day." 

"No slide at all," asserted Francois, vainly- 
repeating his uneasy gutturals. 

Pctit-Pere had seen this haunting Indian the 
day before, and he rose early to gather his child in 
from such a danger. Walking the mountain with a 
wallet of good bread and cream and black pudding, 
he saw — the only moving objects, in vapor upon 
the road below — Bruno's bare head and the Algon- 
quin's straw hat, leaving home behind them ; and 
he came down and set himself upon their track. 
Where the road was level he made good progress, 
and the descents were easy, but every hill he climbed 
took toll of the little father's breath, so that he had 
by and by to sit and pant. 

He saw Bruno and Bruno's leader go up a 
branching mountain road to the huge brick church 
set there. They were gone long before he reached 
the spot, for Bruno's restless feet were hard to re- 
strain. Petit-Pere did not know that, however, so 
he climbed to the church and remained two or 
three hours before the altar, crying and saying his 
prayers, so tired and disheartened was the little 

Before noon he was following them again, some- 
what cheered by prayers and black pudding. Thus 
the day grew, and miles stretched out behind him. 



He heard a Castanet patter of hoofs on the road, 
as a calf galloped past him, followed by a gentle 
old horse drawing a buckboard. The buckboard 
had a hood-cover, under which sat a woman and 
boy, the latter driving. Their slim and pliant 
vehicle vibrated under the weight of chests and 
household movables. So anxious were these peo- 

cow during some rods of his journey. She rolled 
her piteous eyes at him as she lowed. 

" Yes. yes," he said to her with perfect sympa- 
thy ; " I know how you feel. A young one of 
mine is running away from me, too." 

It was a little after noon by the sun when 
Francois saw the toll-house of the Montmorenci 


<! w$ 



pie about their calf they failed to notice the aged 
Frenchman as they passed him. For the calf, at 
intervals as it ran, turned back with a reproachful 
countenance and lowed to its mother who trotted 
behind the vehicle, as afraid to pass it as the calf 
was. Thus separated, they moved on calling to 
each other. 

Petit-Pere's moccasin shoes kept pace with the 

bridge. Bruno and he were passing one of those 
earthen caverns made for preserving fruit and 
milk, and the door stood open, showing a dusty, 
dark interior. Francois's quick eye could detect 
no inmate at home in the house to which it be- 
longed, so he stopped and said to Bruno : 

''No hurry. Hot day. Go in hole and sleep." 
Bruno regarded the plan with disfavor. 




" I am not a fox nor a bear," said he. 

" Fine hole," urged Francois. 

" I am going to the Montmorenci," said Bruno. 

" Sun too hot on Indian pipes," suggested 
Francois. " Turn black. Die." 

Bruno examined the treasure he carried in his 

" Old father not like black Indian pipes," added 

" I wish my father had them," said the boy. 
" I have carried them so far for him." 

" Save in shade. Take in hole," persisted the 

" I will take them in," decided Bruno. " But 
you stay outside. I don't want you in this place 
with me. You might step on my pipes. I '11 set 
them down in the coolness and play ' Roule ma 
bou-le.' " 

Accordingly he ventured into the cave, and 
Francois promptly clapped the door shut and held 
it by the latch. He expected to hear the boy 
shout and remonstrate in that thick and musty 
darkness, and braced himself to maintain the 
door, grinning as an Indian grins. But Bruno 
was silent for the space of a dozen breaths, when 
his laugh made jollity in the tight hole ; and di- 
rectly his accordion began, though its scope was 
smothered and pent. 

A calf careered past, followed by a backboard 
whose occupants stared suspiciously at Francois. 
A cow followed trotting, and shaking her head 
because of grievances, and last came a little old 
man, sweating into the red kerchief which bound 
his forehead, and he did not pass by, but stood 
still listening to Bruno's muffled music. 

Francois was an ugly Algonquin to look at. 
From his arm-pits he towered above Petit-Pere, 
as that small father took hold of the latch and 
struggled with him. 

" What matter? "remonstrated Francois, think- 
ing it might be the owner of the cave who attacked 
him. " Got nothing but boy in there. Boy not 
do any harm." 

•■ It is my Narcisse ! " 

" No," said Francois, " this another boy. Man 
hire me to catch this boy." 

" Give him up to me," said Petit-Pere. ceasing 
to wrench at the latch, and opening his wallet of 
French dainties. " I will give you all of this black 
pudding if you will let my son out." 

" No," grinned Francois. 

" Father," said the muffled voice of Bruno 
within, where he listened with silenced accordion. 
" I have some Indian pipes for you." 

" Hear my pretty dear ! " 

Petit-Pere pressed his face to the door and called, 

" Narcisse, art thou hurt ? " 

" No, father. I came in to keep the pipes from 
the sun." 

" Will you come out? " 

" When I have finished my tune," said Bruno. 

" Will he let thee out?" 

Without troubling himself about that, Bruno 
burst into a shout of singing, and his accordion 
throbbed on. 

The French grandfather, during this perform- 
ance, negotiated. He pleaded with the grinning 
Algonquin, offering in turn every item of clothing 
on his person for the ransom of this son. He offered 
the undigged potatoes on the slanting hill at home, 
and his son Elzear's cherished pigs. So winningly 
did he beg, and so loud did Bruno carelessly roar in 
the cave, that Francois thought it advisable to yield 
before the sun had tilted as much as he wished it to 
tilt ; and Bruno came out with the Indian pipes 
sticking in sand. His two sisters were among the 
objects erased from his mind. The tenderness which 
he had felt for them now set toward this stranger 
w ho persistently adopted him ; and, half ashamed, 
he made his offering to the delighted creature. 

"O Narcisse, my boy ! " cried Petit-Pere, "you 
then thought of me even while your face was turned 
from me ! But will you come home? The Algon- 
quins and Hurons, what can they teach my chil- 
dren ? This Indian hath been hired to lead thee 
off again to the woods. Was I not a good father ? 
Did I ever say to any of you, ' The house is crowded, 
and the ground will yield only potatoes and peas 
enough for me and Elzear and Ursule ? ' No. Some 
fathers do so, but I never could." 

" But you did," asserted Bruno, struggling with 
his memory. 

" No, Narcisse ; no, Narcisse ! " 

The boy regarded the weeping old countenance 
with a wistful softening and relaxing of all his own 
facial muscles. 

" It is nothing, father," he soothed. " Be con- 
tent, be content." 

" I am desolated of my children ! " 

" Be content, father. I will go home with thee. 
I will go home with thee as soon as I have run my 

"Wilt thou, then, — wilt thou?" 

" Come on with us, father, and see me go down 
my slide." 

Petit-Pere, holding the bark tray of Indian pipes 
in his hands, sparkled through his tears. 

'• No slide to run," muttered Francois. 

The Algonquin hung back with unhurried steps, 
but the two others walked on chattering, ahead of 

As they approached the Montmorenci, he exam- 
ined the road beyond it with anxious eyes. Mon- 
sieur Lavoie did not appear. 



Keeping uneasy watch over Bruno, he induced 
the old man and the young one to sit down. The 
roar of the falls and war of water along the de- 
scending bed visibly affected Bruno. He turned 
his ear to the sound; his eye brightly measured 
its sweep. 

The Montmorenci, though scarcely fifty feet 
wide, whirls through a crooked gorge and down 
an inclined plane — a torrent before it takes its 
plunge of two hundred and fifty feet from the face 
of the precipice. A clear brown stream, ready to 
sparkle — anxious, every atom, to contribute to 
that eternal spectacle in which water seems spirit- 
ualized and glorified. 

The sun was so pleasant that Bruno stretched 
himself on the grass, his accordion dropping from 
relaxed fingers and lying where ants could travel 
over it. The watchful Algonquin saw Petit-Pcre 
nod over his Indian pipes. A number of empty 
cabs stood before the toll-house waiting for tour- 
ists who had gone down to see the falls. 

When Monsieur Lavoie left Quebec with his 
daughter and Marcelline Charland, he rode in the 
largest of his vehicles — a roomy landau, which 
could be opened. But while they threaded narrow 
descending streets — better fitted to two-wheelers 
or horseback riders — it came into his mind that 
another vehicle and another assistant might be 
necessary for the comfortable taking of a boy more 
or less unsettled in wits. 

"Turn away from here and go back to Buade 
street," he said to his coachman. " There is some- 
thing more to be done." 

But a flock of sheep were ahead, trotting" on 
stones, their fleeces packed from wall to wall. A 
brutal drayman drove into the flock and over a 
lamb. Aurele screamed. 

" It would give me delight to take the carriage- 
whip to that fellow," said the poet, hotly. 

" Papa, I am so glad you could see him." 

"But every privilege has its reverse side," said 
her father. " Two or three days ago I could not 
have been so outraged through my eyes." 

While drayman and shepherd threatened and 
shouted at each other, the sheep with their dust 
passed an outlet through which the landau could 
turn up the ascent to a street frequented by cab- 
men. Then the poet engaged a sturdy French 
driver to follow with his empty cab to the falls. 

Francois went to the door of the toll-house to 
ask what time it was, and heard with relief that it 
was quite two o'clock. Just as he turned away he 
saw Monsieur Lavoie's carriages coming toward 
the bridge, but he also saw the aged Frenchman 
standing up alone, with lifted arms, shouting. 

The coming party halted ; they had seen Bruno 
Charland run over the road and leap up a bank. 

Perhaps the boy, dozing, was stirred by his re- 
peated dream. At any rate, Francois saw it was 
a fatal mistake to have left him an instant. He 
was already around the gorge of the Montmorenci 
and probably launching his wind-fallen timber for 
a slide. 

The resources of an Indian — bold, agile, and 
intensely muscular when he chooses to exert his 
strength — were put to instant test. Francois did 
all that any man could have done. 

The poet leaped from his seat and ran to help, 
but all was done before he reached the spot. 

Bruno came down the foaming gorge, — not 
floating as he had fancied he would float, shouting 
" Roule ma bou-le," bowing under the bridge, and 
pausing an instant to view a world at his feet be- 
fore taking that sublime plunge ;— he was coming 
down the descending rock-bed turned over and 
over, spun in a whirlpool, and shot like an arrow 
down the flume, already a helpless and lifeless 
object. The three logs he had fastened together 
for this voyage darted ahead of him toward the 
falls, struck against rock and turned obliquely in 
their course, giving Francois the only instant's ad- 
vantage he could have. Francois, holding with 
an Indian's grip to a rough point which he had 
tried to loosen and knew to be safe, leaned out with 
stretched arm and caught the tumbling figure as 
it came to that acute angle made by logs and 
bank. He teetered in his struggle. The screams 
in Monsieur Lavoie's carriage, the roar of the falls, 
the boiling of water up the gorge, — all buzzed in 
his ears like bees. He thought Bruno had him, 
and they should go over the falls together. But 
he had Bruno, and, not knowing how he did so, 
drew the boy out of that rushing force and dragged 
him up the bank. Before he had done this the 
logs shot on and went over like passing blots in 
the descending sheen of satin, shivering to splin- 
ters on the rocks below, but hiding their fragments 
in everlasting mist. 

Bruno's accordion was left sprawling in the grass, 
where one of the toll-man's children afterward 
found it beside the Indian pipes Petit-Pere dropped 
when he jumped up to restrain the boy. Some of 
them were trampled to a smear ; others looked 
shattered like porcelain. 

Chapter XVI. 


The cabmen at the toll-house came running to 
help Monsieur Lavoie and the Indian. 

Aurele resolutely held Marcelline against her own 
person, covering the child's face. Marcelline stood 




still, trembling and crying in her silent way; she 
made no louder outcry when the poet was obliged 
to tell her that Bruno was lifeless, but still rained 
tears and shook under Aurele's arms. 

" Put him in my carriage," said Monsieur Lavoie 
as the bearers brought forward their load. 

He got in himself and turned the cushions so 
Bruno could lie lengthwise of the vehicle. 

" Yes, put him in a wagon," repeated the child- 
ish grandfather, following. " For he is wetter 
than his little father ever got, hunting him down, 
the rogue." 

The poet placed his daughter and Marcelline in 
the cab he had brought with him from Quebec. 
He stood beside it in the irresolution which stupe- 
fies people after a shock. 

" Where shall we go ? " he inquired. 

" Shall we not take him home with us, Papa," 
whispered Aurele. 

"My Aurele, it is this little girl I ask. She 
should determine." 

" 1 don't know," wept Marcelline. " Monsieur, 
he ought to go to Alvine. Alvine would know 
what to do." 

" She is somewhere along the Beaupre road ? " 

" Yes, monsieur." 

" Very well. We will then move toward Beau- 
pre. I do not myself know what to do — since 
nothing can be done." 

It was Petit-Pere at his elbow reaching after the 
young lady and her crying companion in the cab. 

" Two more besides Olivier and Narcisse ! " said 
Petit-Pere, his hands quivering with eagerness. 
" Four of my children have I now together." 

" Who is he, Papa?" inquired Aurele in Eng- 

" I don't know," Monsieur Lavoie replied in the 
same language. 

" But Flavie is crying," lamented the grand- 
father, — " my little Flavie that was scalded and 
never grew well after it." 

Marcelline sobbed at him over Aurele's hand- 
kerchief, " Monsieur, I was burned." 

" Little Flavie," urged Petit-Pere, pushing be- 
tween the wheels and using gestures and winning 
grimaces to fortify what he said, " the boy is well 
drenched, but listen to me. This is an old trick 
of his. He has been to see the world. He is very 
clever and can run slides through rapids for the 
amusement of it. He has told me all these things, 
so do not cry. For we will dry him and give him 
a dose of my daughter Ursule's medicine, and to- 
morrow he will be as well as ever." 

The three gazed at this animated aged face, so 
jubilant over calamity. Afternoon sunshine glit- 
tered on the waiting carriages Monsieur Lavoie's 
coachman, having covered Bruno with a robe, 

sat immovable on his box. Tourists and people 
at the toll-house were making inquiries of the 

" What is your name, father? " kindly inquired 
the poet, feeling comforted by the innocent pres- 

" What is thy name, Olivier ! " he responded in 
sweet derision. "Oh, you rogues. You went away 
with red faces, and you came back with faces red. 
My Olivier, and my Marie, and my Flavie." 

" Do you know him at all ? " murmured Aurele 
to Marcelline. 

" No, mademoiselle. I never saw him before. 
And he claims even my brother." 

" Let us now go home," said the grandfather — 
an aged cherub in red kerchief and gray tasseled 
cap — to the poet, whose fire-shorn face, changed 
to a caricature of itself by peeling cuticle and lash- 
less eyelids, yet responded with the complete sym- 
pathy of a poet. 

" How far is it home, little father? " 

"All of two leagues, Olivier, my son. I have 
the ache of two leagues in my limbs, for I fol- 
lowed Narcisse all the way." 

" Is my sister there ? " demanded Marcelline. 

"Yes, yes, yes, Flavie. She hath been home 
a week." 

" It must be Alvine, mademoiselle. How does 
she look, monsieur ? " 

" Do ye all forget each other ? " 

" Monsieur, is it a girl taller than I am ? " 

"Much taller, my Flavie. Thou art the only 
one that was scalded and checked in growing." 

Bare places were left on the scats of the landau 
at each side of the cushions. The poet helped 
Petit-Pere to one of these, and sat down facing 
him. Francois came to the carriage-step and re- 
ceived his pay. 

" This has been an unfortunate appointment, 
Francois," said Monsieur Lavoie. 

" Yes, monsieur. He bound to run that slide." 

" I think you did all you could. If any one is to 
blame, it is myself." 

" Ought to tied boy," said Francois. "Bad job." 

" Do you say he intended to run these falls be- 
fore you brought him here ? " 

" Yes, monsieur. Had him raft made ready. 
Bound to make his slide some time." 

" I wish I had held to Beauport church and not 
changed the place to Montmorenci bridge." 

" That boy like the wind," pronounced Fran- 
cois, in some excitement. " Wish I kept him in 
hole. But old French father came begged him 

" Do you know him, Francois ? " 

The Algonquin glanced at Petit-Pere sitting 
contentedly in a corner of the back seat of the 






carriage, as inattentive to their talk as a sleepy 
infant would have been. 

"No, monsieur. He from up Beaupre road 
hunting him stray family." 

" Very well, Francois." 

The Algonquin turned to his own course, and 
this procession of two vehicles began to wind the 
curves of the Beaupre road. It was a familiar way 
to the poet. He had seen the far blue mountains 
in many moods. But this drive which he began 
in great sadness seemed afterward the most beau- 
tiful one of all. People in caleches and cabs, on 
buckboards and hay-carts, passed, all with inquir- 
VOL. XVI.— as. 


But the burden it carried lost all tragedy to the 
mind of the poet, as they proceeded on their way. 
Petit-Pere, worn out with his long tramp, put his 
arm across the boy and fell asleep ; both of them 
blameless children, one bound a little deeper in 
slumber than the other, but cared for quite as well. 
All this seemed a natural — even a wholesome — 
sequence to Bruno's beginnings in the world. A 
robin dropped one instant to stand on his covered 
shoulder, turning its serious head before it flew, as 
if trying to remember when robins had alighted 
on sleeping children before. Pain had probably 




spared Bruno — companion of woods and moun- 
tains and water in its various forms. 

The voice of the Quebec cabman was the only 
voice heard from either vehicle as the wheels 
ground softly on and on. Habit made him urge 
his steady horse with explosive notes, " Haut-tu, 
Marsdon, Marsdon ! " * 

Marcelline, watching for her sister's face at every 
window and gate, saw none familiar. 

Late in the afternoon they passed Pelletier's 
cottage without knowing it was their destination. 
The smithy was shut. The blacksmith, in great 
anxiety at his grandfather's long absence, had 
taken Gervas and gone to seek him. 

As this walking company parted to give the slow 
carriages the right of way — "There is the little 
father ! " exclaimed Madame Pelletier, recognizing 
first a gray tassel and then his whole sleeping 

" Si, — so ! " cried Pelletier. " Monsieur," with 
his hand to his cap, "has he been hurt — that 
you have the kindness to bring my grandfather 
in your carriage ? " 

Monsieur Lavoie's reply to Pelletier was over- 
come by younger voices. Marcelline stumbled out 
of the cab to her sister. Their talk, their stormy 
sorrow together, and the clamor of sympathy 
which rose around them — none of these disturb- 


Petit-Pere had settled down against the cushions, 
absorbed in rest. 

Thus they drew nearer and nearer to the village 
of Beaupre itself. They could see the populous 
center, the church towers, and two fresh pilgrim- 
boats side by side making ready to pour their loads 
out on the dock. 

People were also coming from Beaupre in such 
numbers as to fill the road : Mother Ursule and 
her husband Pelletier, who had gone quite to Ste. 
Anne in his vain search ; Gervas behind, his head 
crowding against one of the twelve Pelletier children 
from Quebec ; and Alvine, wearing like the others 
a pilgrimage medal pinned to her dress. 

* Perhaps a corrupt 

ances waked Petit-Pere. He slept through the 
first shock which began for these two girls the 
common lesson of sorrow. He slept while the 
Pelletier children from Quebec, his relatives whom 
he had never seen, stood on each side of the lan- 
dau, open-mouthed, dark-eyed, starred with pil- 
grim medals, a stupid young troop ; excepting 
Hermenegilde the eldest, who checked their whis- 
pers and kept the imps from climbing the carriage 
steps. He slept while his son Elzear and his 
daughter Ursule made low-spoken arrangements 
with the poet. He slept while Hermenegilde led 
her flock ahead, and the carriages were turned 
back toward Pelletier's house. 

ion of "Marchons." 




By that time the dock was black with landing 
pilgrims. Up the long causeway from the river 
they started, singing, banners nodding at intervals 
along the line. 

Now the bells of Ste. Anne burst out in welcome 
and response. 

Petit-Pere sat up in his seat. He was wide- 
awake, tingling with excess of consciousness, like 
a child when its night sleep ends. He saw the 
Pelletier children of Quebec walking ahead, the 
others on each side and behind him. A smile, so 
broad that it became a grin of delight, expanded 
his visage. Yet, with caution the forefinger of his 
right hand counted the fingers of his left three 
times and two fingers more, his eyes tallying the 
person each finger represented. 

" Let me out ! " said Petit-Pere, combing his scarf 
to a streamer on the top step in reckless haste, and 
unconscious that Monsieur Lavoie pushed him 
from the moving wheels. 

His children were all together, marching home ! 
Two of them were crying ; but our children must 
fret sometimes. Sorrow and joy run so close 
together. His watchings, and his winter-tears — 
they were done with. 

" Cling, clang, boom ! Cling, boom, boom ! 
Cling, clang ! " rejoiced the bells of Ste. Anne. 

" Now I have all my children again ! " cried the 
French grandfather, taking oft" his cap and shak- 
ing it as he walked backward like a drum-major 
at the head of the troop, his eyes wild with joy. 
" Ring, bells, ring ! They have all come back ! 
I have them all gathered together once more ! " 

"Cling, clang! Boom, boom! Cling, boom! 
Cling, clang ! " rejoiced the bells of Ste. Anne. 

Chapter XVII. 


THE body of Bruno Charland was placed in the 
sloping cemetery of Ste. Anne's old chapel, not far 
from the grotto where pilgrims kneel and say 
prayers. The poet Lavoie marked his bed with 
a marble cross, small and slender, yet conspicuous 
among the black wooden and slate crosses which 
have leaned there from the east wind a quarter of 
a century. There was one French boy less among 
the swarming surplus who leave old hives and 
crowded garden-sized farms along the rivers. 

His father wept over him in the Chaudiere valley 
when the tardy news came to his knowledge, in a 
letter tenderly written by Aurele Lavoie for Alvine 
and Marcelline. But he had been obliged to send 
the boy out as Abraham sent Ishmael, the customs 
of his people and the scantiness of his stony farm 
operating like a decree from which there is no 
appeal. Jules remained to comfort his old age. 

And his other children, from whom he heard at 
long intervals, were moderately prospering in 
northern Illinois and western Ontario, in Michi- 
gan and Maine and Quebec. 

That traveled Frenchman called the " Wan- 
derer " was the influence that directed Bruno's 
unpaid lumber wages to the hands of his sisters; 
and they devoted every penny to religious purposes 
for Bruno's sake. 

Alvine and Marcelline, living the contented and 
unambitious lives of their people, see each other 
every day: two dusky, growing, French girls chat- 
tering rapidly in that language, and having always 
much to say of Mademoiselle Aurele. For Mar- 
celline lives in the family of the poet Lavoie, a 
fixture like Philomenie, sometimes assistant nurse, 
sometimes assistant maid, and at all times an 
affectionate and willingly helpful inmate of the 
lavish house. 

In July of each year, these girls will go to Beau- 
pre, leaving by the pilgrim-boat which departs 
from Quebec dock at six every morning during 
the season, and returning by the Beaupre road. 

Perhaps — and perhaps not — they may find 
Petit-Pere sitting in the long gallery behind the 
geranium pots of his daughter Ursule. He does 
not wander on the hills anymore, nor trouble him- 
self with any care. If it is a bright day he basks, 
and if there is a rainy drizzle, sheltered by his 
Norman eaves he can hear the birds sing in the 
rain. The salt breath of the river comes to him, 
and the bells of Ste. Anne send their sound waves 
from the east. He can watch laborers at work on 
the new railroad which is being built out of the 
marsh land below Beaupre road, to bring tourists 
by the thousand in a brief rush from Quebec. 

" My daughter Ursule," he says every fine morn- 
ing, " I will go au fort — the great fort, Quebec — 
to see my children to-morrow." But he has never 
in his life been to Quebec. 

" That will be a long journey for thee, my Petit- 
Pere," says Mother LIrsuIe, while she knits. 

" And, therefore, I will rest to-day. Since Oli- 
vier keeps an eye over the young ones, and my 
roving Narcisse stays with him off the hills, I am 
not desolated to know where they are. It is not, 
after all, possible to keep our children always 
around our knees." 

" No, no, no," says his daughter. 

" My children came home," muses the grand- 
father, shining with satisfaction. ''But they would 
go again. They need me no longer to knit for 
them. They are well. I have rest now from seek- 
ing them. But to-morrow I must go to Quebec to 
see my children," repeats Petit-Pere, white hairs 
slipping from his red kerchief as he turns his head 
to gaze at one of the fairest landscapes in the world. 


Redbreasts ride*^- ^ 

Esther B .TIFFANY'S 

AID Mr. Redbreast to his love, 
: Do come and take a ride ! 
I have the prettiest little nag 
In all the countrv-side. 

■ I '11 sit in front and hold the whip, 

And you shall sit behind." 
' Perrup peree," Miss Robin said, 

Which means, " You 're very kind. 

■ Good-bye, Mamma ! good-bye, Papa ! 

If I 'm not back to tea, 
Don't be alarmed, I '11 be quite safe 
In Redbreast's care," said she. 



And so in gallant Redbreast's care 
To Farmer White's she flew. 

Where on the stable-roof there pranced 
A charger full in view. 

Then Redbreast look his seat in front, 
Miss Robin perched behind, 
" Perrup peree." Miss Robin said. 
" I 'm sure you 're -very kind." 

The swallows skimmed about their heads, 

The oriole and jay 
Sailed singing round the happy pair, 
" How fast we go ! " said they. 

" A last spring's nest," fond Redbreast trilled. 
" I Ye taken for this year. 
The slight repairing that it needs 
Won't make the rent too dear. 

"A shaving here, some horse-hair there, 
And now and then a twig. 
Together with a little mud, 

Will make it neat and trig. 

" It 's half-way up a cedar-tree ; 
No pussy lives near by. 
A cherry-orchard 's close at hand. 
Can you make cherry-pie ? 

"And, best of all, this pretty nag 
Is just across the way. 
I need a little housekeeper. 

Miss Robin — don't say nay ! " 



v* si 



You should have seen bold Redbreast then, and how he cocked his head, 
And how his manly bosom swelled beneath his waistcoat red. 

You should have heard Miss Robin then. " Peree perrup," said she, 
" Peree perro," which means, " With joy I '11 share your cedar-tree ! " 

But when some sunny weeks were past, you would have seen, indeed, 
Four chubby little robins perched upon the prancing steed. 

Near by were Redbreast Ma and Pa, — Mamma with anxious mind. 
" Cling tight, my little dears," she warned, "and don't fall off behind. 

" I 've always heard from Dr. Wren, and he is wondrous wise, 
There 's nothing better for the young than horseback exercise." 

Piped up the little Robins then, upon the prancing steed, 
"We quite agree with Dr. Wren, he 's very wise indeed ! " 


one day, was astedgj 

whether ^liP" 

e cou/c/m&& reliable ,L 
~ v/eatben 4A#$?! 
§)be laughed till she cried, 1 
and said'gless you I've tried, 
Suf tfye icings will get 
mixQd up together " v $ 



! \L 

My eiographer, if I should ever have any, 
would say in his first chapter: "From boyhood 
he evinced an aptitude for the Natural Sciences. 
He was seldom without a magnifying-glass in his 
pocket, and put it to most excellent use in familiar- 
izing himself with those exquisite details of Mother 
Nature's handiwork which are sure to escape the 
mere casual observer." And in a later part of the 
same future rival to "Boswell's Johnson" will 
probably be seen these words : "In later life we see 
the traits of his boyhood deepened and broadened. 
The magnifying-glass of his school-boy days has 
become the large and costly binocular microscope 
surrounded by all the apparatus which the cunning 
workers in metals know so well how to produce in 
limitless profusion for the ruin of the scientific 

If such statements should be made, they will 
be based upon facts. 

There are, however, other facts which no biog- 
rapher will dare to tell, and which, therefore, I 
must write for myself. The following experience 
is one of them. Whether to my credit or to my 
discredit, I shall tell the plain story and leave it, 
with all its improbability, to your fair judgment. 

Already knowing my taste for the use of the 
microscope, you can understand the following letter 
without further introduction : 

" Amagansett, L. I., Aug. 5. 
" Dear Philip : I suppose the thermometers in the 
city are the only scientific instruments now studied with 

any interest. Being cool enough here to be reasonably 
unselfish, I am willing to divert your mind from the 
thermometer to the microscope. 

" I inclose what seems to my prosaic mind a pebble. 
It was picked up on the beach and playfully thrown by 
me at our 'Professor.' He, of course accidentally, 
caught it. After an examination, he declared that it dif- 
fered from anything he had ever seen : that it was neither 
animal, vegetable, nor mineral. In short, he knows that he 
does n't know what it is, and therefore says (speaking in 
true scientific vein) — 'Although of indeterminate nature, 
certain fusiform bosses, in conjunction with a general 
spheroidal tendency, seem strong a priori indications of 
aerolitic flight through our own atmosphere, or other 
gaseous medium of similar density ' ! I make no com- 
ments. So bring out your microscope and let us know 
what it is. If you should come and join us you would 
find little but sand and salt-water; but then there is 
plenty of each. Sincerely yours, 

Carroll Mathers." 

He inclosed a small rounded object wrapped in 
tissue-paper. It was light blue in color and a trifle 
smaller than a hazel-nut. The surface seemed, as 
the Professor hinted, to have been somewhat 
melted. It certainly had claims to be considered 
a curiosity. 

That evening, after dinner, I took out my mi- 
croscope, and after carefully cleaning the pebble, 
I examined the surface under a strong condenser, 
but thereby simply magnified the irregularities. 
" I shall have to cut it in two," I said to myself. 
It was very hard, and I succeeded only after some 
"effort. I cut it through a little away from the 
center, and so divided it almost into halves. Ex- 



amining the flat surfaces, I found a small dark 
spot in the center of one of them. 

" I thought so ! " I exclaimed triumphantly ; " I 
will now cut off a section and shall undoubtedly 
find a petrified insect — perhaps of an extinct spe- 
cies ! " 

I sawed away the rounded side and, when I 
could see that the dark spot was nearer the sur- 
face, polished the section down with oil and emery- 
paper until I had obtained a thin disk with a dark 
spot in the middle. 

itself and seemed about to assume the appearance 
of an insect — when, just at the point where I had 
expected it to be plainly visible, it suddenly dis- 
appeared, leaving a hole in the disk through which 
the light streamed ! I was perplexed and gazed 
stupidly. The light seemed suddenly to flicker 
and then was shut off altogether. 

I inspected the instrument carefully, but all 
seemed to be in perfect order. 

I picked up the disk. There certainly was a 
hole through it. 

It was now ready for the microscope. The focus 
was carefully found by slowly turning the fine- 
adjustment screw. The spot gradually defined 


" Perhaps there is something in the tube," I said, 
and unscrewed the eye-piece. Just as the eye-piece 
came loose something jumped from the tube, 
knocking the glass from my fingers. 

I thought it was a moth or bug — but how did it 
come there ? 

" Well, that 's very strange," said I, aloud. 

"Most extraordinary," a voice replied; a very 
small voice, but the words were clearly audible. I 
looked around the room. 

"Don't trouble yourself to search. I am not 
afraid. I 'm right here on the table ! " 

I faced the table again and discovered that what I 




had supposed to be a bug was, apparently, a man ; 
and a very commonplace, quiet, and gentlemanly 
man, not at all remarkable, except for the fact that 
he was only about three inches tall. When I saw 
him he was straightening out his odd little hat, 
which had in some way become slightly crushed. 

My eyes at times deceive me somewhat, as my 
microscope work has made them sensitive. So I 
stooped to take a closer view of my visitor. 

He appeared to be startled, and cried : 

" Keep off! Do you mean to eat me? Beware ! 
Giant though you be, I can defend myself! " 

" Eat you ! " I answered, laughing. " I am not 
a cannibal, even on a very small scale ! And I 
have just dined. It was but curiosity. What in 
the world are you ? " 

"Curiosity, indeed!" he replied. "What in 
the world are you ? " and he mimicked my tone to 

I saw that he stood upon his dignity, and thought 
it best to humor him. 

"You must pardon me," I began, "if my sur- 
prise on seeing a gentleman of your small presence 
caused me for the moment to forget the respect 
due to a stranger. But you yourself will not deny 
that the sight of such a mere atomy — a lusus na- 
tures, if I may be allowed the expression — would 
tend to excite curiosity rather than to remind one 
of the demands of courtesy." 

This seemed to mollify him, for he replied, with 
a smile, " It is a strange sensation to hear one's self 
styled a lusus natures, but I can not in justice com- 
plain, as I was about to apply the same term to 
yourself; and you certainly are colossally enor- 
mous — prodigious ! I trust, however, that /have 
controlled my curiosity, and 
have accorded you such 
treatment as is due a gen- 
tleman — even on the very 
largest scale ! " 

He paused and gazed upon 
me with undisguised amaze- 

"How did you get here? " 
I asked, after a moment's 

" I should be delighted to 
know," he answered, with 
evident sincerity. "It may 
be I can tell you, when you 
are good enough to begin by 
letting me know where I am." 
"Nothing easier," I said. 
" This is my room." 

" A valuable piece of infor- 
mation," he said, with some 
sarcasm, "and the apart- 
ment appears to be comfort- 
able and rather well arranged 
— with exceptions. I see you 
cling to antiquated styles." 

" Indeed ! I was not aware 
of it." 
"Why," he said, seeing I did not understand, 
" you light the room with coal-gas, as the ancients 
did. You still use the mechanical clock instead of 
the vocable chronophotometer ; your furniture is, 
I see, of wood, instead of coherent alcyite, while — 
but I do not object to the effect — it is delightfully 
archaic in tone ! " 

" I really don't follow you," I replied, somewhat 
piqued, " but you might remember that, archaic or 
not, this room is my own, and your criticism upon 
it is as gratuitous as your presence in it ! " 

I admit that this was not precisely courteous, 
but his manner was very supercilious and pro- 
voked me. 

"Why did you bring me here? I am sure I 
did n't request it," he angrily retorted. 

" My atomic friend," I said, impressively, "who 
or what you are, I neither know nor care. But 
kindly bear in mind this fact : I did not bring you 
here. I don't ask you to stay here, — whenever 
you wish to go, I can bear your departure without 
a pang. Nevertheless, so long as you remain I 
shall expect you to behave in a gentlemanly man- 



ner ! " Here I thumped upon the table, and he 
fell over. He recovered nimbly and, drawing 
himself up to his full three inches, replied with the 
greatest dignity : 

" My colossal acquaintance, there is one fact 
you must kindly bear in your mind : Who or what 
you are is of little or no importance to me. How 
I came here, I know no more than yourself. Suffice 
it to say, I did n't come of my own accord ; and, 
from my experience so far," — here he paused and 
glanced scornfully about him, — " I have no desire 
to prolong my stay. But while I do stay I shall 
insist upon all proper courtesy and all due re- 
spect ! " 

His dignity was so absurdly out of keeping with 
his size that I could not refrain from a burst of 
laughter, and I became better-natured at once. 

'• Well," I replied, when I had recovered my 
composure, " now that we have come to an under- 
standing, tell me quietly, in a friendly way, as one 
gentleman to another, something about yourself. 
If you will allow me the question, where do you 
live? Were you born a dwarf, or " 

"Born a dwarf! " he broke in angrily, "born 
a dwarf! You great, coarse, overgrown giant — 
what do you mean, sir? " 

"What do I mean?" It was too absurd. 
" You ridiculous diamond-edition of humanity, 
what do you suppose I mean ? I have always 
heard that dwarfs were sensitive ; but, really, when 
one is only about half the size of a respectable 
jack-knife " 

"And I," he broke in again, "have always 
heard that giants were invariably thick-witted and 
rude ; but I did suppose that any human being, 
even if he were as tall as the tallest trees and had 
a voice like a clap of thunder (which is far from 
agreeable to your hearers, by the way), might be 
sensible enough to " 

" So you think," said I, interrupting him, " that 
I am as large as the tallest trees ? " 

" Certainly," he said, with perfect seriousness. 

I thought it worth while to convince him of his 
error, and therefore invited him to step to the 
window, against which the table stood. He did 
so, and, upon looking out, threw up his arms in 
sheer amazement. 

" It is a land of giants ! " he said, slowly and in 
an awe-struck tone. 

" Ah ! " I remarked quietly, pleased with my little 
object-lesson, " you now see how much smaller you 
are than ordinary men." 

" Ordinary men," he repeated very slowly and 
with an absent expression. " What then can he 
think me ? " 

He stood in silence, with his hands clasped be- 
hind him, and appeared to be deep in thought. 

When he spoke again it was with an entire change 
of manner. 

" Am 1 to understand you, sir, that all the men, 
women, and children known to you are proportion- 
ately as large as yourself, and that everything is 
on the same gigantic scale ? " 

" It is exactly so," I replied seriously. 

" And may I ask you to believe that I have 
never seen anything or anybody except upon the 
smaller scale which you can see exemplified m 
me ? Did you never see any one of my size before, 
nor hear of us ? " 

" Never ! except in fairy stories," I said frankly, 
for now he seemed to be really a very sensible little 

"This is not a question of fairy tales, nor of 
joking!" he said, with great solemnity. "We 
are in the very midst of some great mystery. I 
must belong to a different race of beings — for I 
never heard, read, or dreamed of such enormous 
people. Where I live, all are like myself! " 

This seemed incredible, but finally I asked, " And 
where do you live ? " 

"I live," he answered, "in the twenty-first 
range of precinct forty, Telmer Municipal, Waver, 
Forolaria ; and by profession I am an Official Ar- 

" You are very exact," I said, with mock admira- 

" And where do you live? " he inquired. 

"This is my home," I said; "the Alfresco, 
Madison street, New York City." 

" Thank you," said he, with sarcastic gratitude. 
" I am as wise as before ! " 

"You know as much of my residence as I of 
yours ! " I answered sharply. 

" You can not be ignorant of Telmer ? " he asked, 
raising his eyebrows in surprise at my ignorance. 

" You surely know New York City? " I rejoined, 
in the same manner. "The largest city in the 
I" mted States ! " 

"United States," he repeated, "and what are 
those — who united them?" 

" Perhaps a history would give you the clearest 
information," I suggested. 

" I think it might, if I had the time," he replied 
soberly, as he drew from his pocket what I supposed 
to be a watch ; but it was too small to be clearly 
distinguishable. He pressed it in his hand, and I 
heard a sound or voice clearly enunciating : " Thir- 
ty-four degrees after the eighteenth." Before 1 
could say a word he resumed, "It is too late to- 
night ; perhaps you will save my time by telling me 
the substance of it ? " 

"Flattered, I 'm sure." I felt as if I was 
again in school ; but after a moment's reflection 
I cleared my throat and began : 




'•The Kingdom of England " 

" The what ? " he asked, with a puzzled look. 

"The Kingdom of England — where the Eng- 
lish live " 

" What are the English?" 

" Oh, come," said I. laughing, " you are talking 
English ! We are both talking English ! " 

'• Well, well," he said ; " I was thinking a while 
ago how it could be that you were able to speak 
good Forolarian," and he burst out laughing. 
Then suddenly ceasing he went on, " But if we 
begin on the mysteries we shall never get to the 
invited states. Pray go on." 

" These English, you see, colonized a portion of 
America " 

"A portion of America — that is the name of 
a place ? " 

" Oh, what is the use ! " I broke off angrily. " If 
I define every word I use, I shall never reach a 
conclusion. If you would like to pursue the sub- 
ject further, my library is at your service." 

"Thank you," he replied, with dignity; "per- 
haps 1 could glean some information from tliat 
source." I made no reply. 

Presently, seeing that he wandered about the 
table in rather an aimless way, I asked, " Can I be 
of service ? " 

" If you could suggest some method of reaching 
the floor " 

I offered him the ruler. He seated himself cau- 
tiously upon it, and I lowered him gently to the 

" Quite a walk to the book-case ! " was his next 
observation. I had n't thought of it, but proffered 
my services once more. 

"A matter of indifference to me, sir," he re- 
plied, with a mite of a bow. 

"Equally one to me," I replied, with a bow in 
return. 1 was resolved that he should do some 
thinking for himself. 

" Let us say the lowest, then" ; and he glanced 
at the upper shelves, perhaps calculating the possi- 
ble result of a misstep. 

I left him on the lowest shelf, returning to the 
table to put away the microscope. A slight cough 
drew my attention to the book-case. 

" I admire the bindings," said the little fellow, 
as he paced to and fro along the shelf. 

" I am gratified by your approval," was my 
indifferent reply. 

" Particularly this one," he went on. " Let me 
see," he leaned far backward, and with much diffi- 
culty read the title: "'The Works of Sha-kes- 
peare.' I should like to read them." 

"Very well," I answered politely. 

" Much obliged," said he fiercely. " Please lend' 
me an electric derrick ! " 

" Pardon my stupidity — let me take it down for 
you." I stepped to the book-case, laid the book 
upon the floor, and returned to my work. A silence 
then ensued, which lasted so long that I looked up 
to see how he was progressing. 

He was sitting on the shelf with his tiny legs 
hanging despairingly over a gulf of some six inches 
between himself and the floor. He was afraid to 
jump and ashamed to ask help. Catching my eye, 
he laughed and said : 

" I am rather out of training just now, and not 
fond of jumping ! " 

" Say no more ! " I lifted him to the floor, and 



" Which shelf would you prefer?" I asked, as 
respectfully as possible, for certainly it was not an 
ordinary question. 

turned away ; but only to be recalled by a faint 
ejaculation. His mishaps were truly ingenious. 
He was caught beneath the cover of the book. 




"My foot slipped," he explained with some 
confusion; "but if it had n't, I believe I could 
have opened the book all by myself! " 

•' I will not leave you, now, until everything is 
in proper order," I replied; 
for it occurred to me that to 
have any accident happen to 
him might be a very per- 
plexing thing. Opening the 
book, I picked him up gin- 
gerly between my fingers, 
first asking pardon for the 
liberty, and deposited him 
softly upon the first page of 
" The Tempest." 

" Are you all right now ? " 
I inquired, to make sure. 

" I believe so," said he, as 
he began to read — running 
to and fro upon the page. 
However, I sat down near by 
and watched him, fearing 
some new difficulty. He read 
with much interest, and 
seemed to enjoy it thorough- 
ly, except when he came to 
the turning of a page. That 
was a nuisance indeed, as 
he had to turn up one edge, 
crawl over it, and then lift 
the page over. 

" Have n't you a smaller 
edition of this fellow's writ- 
ings?" he asked, somewhat 
exhausted by his efforts. 
"This is like reading sign- 
boards ! " 

"No," I replied shortly, 
"but if it tires you, you can 
read something else." 

" But," said he, with some 
enthusiasm, " this is really 
quite good. It 's equal to 
some of Wacoth's earlier 
and cruder work ! It shows 
a talent that would well repay cultivation ! " 

" Yes, it is very fair," I replied, quietly ; "Shake- 
speare certainly has produced some creditable- 
plays — at least, we think so." 

" I should like to have known him," went on 
my undisturbed visitor. " I think we would have 
been congenial. Don't you think so? " 

I paid no attention to this. What could I say? 

" We consider him one of the best writers in the 
language," I said, finally. 

" I would like to hear about them," he said. 

I pretended not to understand this hint : but he 

waited very patiently and returned my gaze with 
quiet expectation. 

" Now, look here," said I, calmly weighing my 
words, "I have, at present, other occupations 

i,. 1 


which, I regret to say," — this was sarcastic, — " pre- 
vent me from undertaking to give you a really 
thorough course in English literature. I might 
be more inclined to do so if I had something to 
begin on. Have you ever heard of Homer?" 

" Yes." he answered eagerly, "my father has a 
cousin of that name — Homer Woggs ! " 

" I can not believe it is the same man," said I, 
soberly. He seemed much disappointed. "At 
all events," I went on, " you can not fail to see the 
folly of expecting me to explain to you all the 
events which have taken place since the world 




"he was caught beneath the cover 


began. I finished school some years ago, and 
have no desire to review the whole curriculum." 

I turned resolutely away and left him to his own 
devices. I worked quietly for a few moments, 
only to be interrupted by a " Whew ! " 

" What 's the matter now? " I asked, irritably. 

" I 'm tired of lugging over these pages ! " 

" Well, don't do it. Sit down. Repose." 

" But I 'm interested in the play ! " 


" I 'm not going to turn the pages for you." 
" Could n't you read it aloud to me ? " he asked, 
with cool assurance. 

" I could, but I won't," I replied, rudely 
enough ; but 1 was provoked at his impudence. 
" You are very obliging," he said, sneeringly. 
I made no reply. After a pause he made a sug- 

" Although determined not to aid me to an oc- 
cupation, perhaps you will not object to my sitting 
by and seeing what you are doing? " 

I could not refuse so reasonable a request. I 
raised him to the table 
and gave him a paper- 
weight to sit upon. 

He quietly watched 
me until I began to un- 
screw the glasses from 
my microscope, when 
he said carelessly : "I 
myself am a microscopic 
amateur ! " 

" It is an interesting 
subject," I replied. 

" Yes. My success 
with the Mincroft glass 
was remarkable." 

" The Mincroft glass, 
— I do not know it, — 
what is its nature ? " I 
asked, with some natural 

•'Why, the compos- 
ite lens invented by 
Mincroft, which enables 
one to see the whole 
of a large object at 
once, all parts being equally magnified — but I 
"bore you ? " He pretended to yawn. 

"On the contrary,"! said, eagerly, "it has 



been my keenest desire to invent such an instru- 
ment. Pray describe it ! " 

"But it is so simple; any schoolboy can ex- 
plain it to you," he said, with feigned indifference. 

" But how can such a marvel be accomplished ? " 
I insisted, carried away by curiosity. 

" Do you really mean to say you never heard of 
it ? " he inquired in a drawling tone, designed, I 
thought, to annoy me. 

" Never ! And I would give any- 
thing to understand it ! " 

He seemed amused by my eager- 
ness, and, smiling indulgently, con- 
tinued in the same tone, " Why, 
that is a trifle — a mere toy com- 
pared to the wonderful Angertort 
Tube. Now, that is what / should 
call an invention ! " 

" What ! another discovery of 
which I have never heard ? The 
Angertort Tube, did you say ? When 
were these inventions made? " 

" I believe it was during the third 
century, before the second great 
migration, but for exactness I shall 
have to refer you to the school- 
books. I never was good at dates. 
However, it does n't matter ; these 
were but the first-fruits of the re- 
vival of science — when chcmismic- 
aton first superseded steam and 

This was too much. " Steam 
and electricity superseded ? They 
are yet in their infancy with us ! " 

" Oh," he replied, laughing, " you 
are far behind the times. We dis- 
used both as soon as we learned to 
control dynamic atomicity." 

" You must be ages in advance of 
us. I beg you to explain some of 
these marvels to me." 

" I have other occupations," said 
he, roguishly, "and, to my great 
regret, they will prevent my tutoring you in the 
A B C's of science. You must think me very 
obliging!" and he arose, put his hands in Iris 
trousers-pockets, and sauntered away across the 
table, whistling softly to himself. 

I lost my temper. 

"You cantankerous little midget, you will an- 
swer my questions or I '11 send you back where you 
came from ! " 

He turned sharply upon me and exclaimed : 

" You great hulking booby, do you expect me 
to bore myself by giving lessons in primary science 
to a cross-grained, disobliging fellow who will not 

take the trouble to tell me who excited the states, 
who Shakespeare is, or to read me even one of his 
I 'll KEEP JUNE. As to going back where I came 
from, I would be glad to rid you of my presence in- 
stantly — if only I knew how. " 

" I '11 try it, anyhow ! " I cried, so angry that I 
hardly knew what 1 said. " You came out of my 
microscope, and into it you shall go again ! " I 

caught him up, dropped him into the tube, screwed 
on the top, and was pleased to see the little black 
spot reappear in the disk. Opening the window, 
I threw out the disk and was amazed to see that, 
instead of falling, it floated away through the mo- 
tionless air like a piece of thistle-down before a 
summer breeze. It soon left the area of light 
coming from my window and was lost to view. 

" Aha ! " I said, with deep satisfaction. " Now 
you can go back where you came from ! " 

I sat down beside my table and. as my anger 
cooled, began to think it all over. At first I felt 
great relief to be rid of the little pest, who fretted 



me by his pertinacity and piqued my self-esteem 
by his air of superiority. 

But gradually my temper cooled, and as I re- 
covered my sane judgment I began to reflect that 
ordinary civility to the little manikin might have 
induced him to tell me enough to have secured 
me fame and fortune, or even to have made me a 

benefactor to my whole race ; and 1 felt bitter shame 
that my ill humor and foolish pride had caused 
me pettishly to throw away an opportunity greater 
than had ever been granted to any human being. 
Still, he was so provoking and so altogether irri- 
tating that I am inclined to think you yourself 
would have done very much the same. 


From the German. 

By Euddra S. Bumstead. 

Once a little Pine-tree, 

In the forest ways, 
Sadly sighed and murmured, 
Thro' the summer days. 
1 I am clad in needles — 

Hateful things! " — he cried; 
' All the trees about me 
Laugh in scornful pride. 
Broad their leaves and fair to see; 
Worthless needles cover me. 

'Ah, could I have chosen, 

Then, instead of these, 
Shining leaves should crown me. 

Shaming all the trees. 
Broad as theirs and brighter, 

Dazzling to behold ; 
All of gleaming silver — 

Nay, of burnished gold. 
Then the rest would weep and sigh ; 
None would be so fine as I." 

Slept the little Pine-tree 

When the night came down, 
While the leaves he wished for 

Budded on his crown. 
All the forest wondered, 

At the dawn, to see 
What a golden fortune 

Decked this little tree. 
Then he sang and laughed aloud; 
Glad was he and very proud. 

Foolish little Pine-tree ! 

At the close of day, 
Thro' the gloomy twilight, 

Came a thief that way. 
Soon the treasure vanished ; 

Sighed the Pine, "Alas ! 
Would that 1 had chosen 

Leaves of crystal glass." 
Long and bitterly he wept, 
But with night again he slept. 

Gladly in the dawning 

Did he wake to find 
That the gentle fairies 

Had again been kind. 
How his blazing crystals 

Lit the morning air ! 
Never had the forest 

Seen a sight so fair. 
Then a driving storm did pass ; 
All his leaves were shattered glass. 

Humbly said the Pine-tree, 
" I have learned 't is best 
Not to wish for fortunes 

Fairer than the rest. 
Glad were I, and thankful, 

If I might be seen, 
Like the trees about me, 

Clad in tender green." 
Once again he slumbered, sad ; 
Once again his wish he had. 

Broad his leaves and fragrant, 

Rich were they and fine, 
Till a goat at noon-day 

Halted there to dine. 
Then her kids came skipping 

Round the fated tree ; 
All his leaves could scarcely 

Make a meal for three. 
Every tender bud was nipt, 
Every branch and twig was stript. 

Then the wretched Pine-tree 
Cried in deep despair, 
"Would I had my needles; 
They were green and fair. 
Never would I change them," 
Sighed the little tree ; 
" Just as nature gave them 

They were the best for me." 
So he slept, and waked, and found 
All his needles safe and sound ! 



An Old Quarrel, 

By Frances Courtenay* Baylor. 

T was one morning this 
last April that a blue- 
bird lit on my window- 
sill, — a bliie-hixil, not a 
new bird, understand, 
for we are very old friends. 
: has been a neighbor of 
mine for years, — a part, at least, 
of every year for a decade, — and 
comes to Twig Lodge, every spring, 
l as regularly as possible. 
c 1 "Well, friend, how are you ? Welcome to 
) Virginia again ! When did you leave the 
South ? " I said in greeting, but had no answer : 
for a moment, indeed, was thinking him rude and 
surly for a traveled bird, when he cocked his head to 
one side, as if listening, and, looking down, said: 
" There they are ! At it again ! They have been 
quarreling in just this way, now, ever since any- 
thing was anywhere. There 's a regular feud be- 
tween them. Hark ! " 

"Between who?" said 1, curiously, regardless 
of grammar. 

" Between them" replied he, impatiently. 
" They are all alike. Hark ! Don't you see that 
snow-flake down below, and that blade of grass ? " 
" Where are you going ? I don't hear anything," 
said I. But he was off, and I was about to leave 
the window when I was arrested by the sound of 
voices, very fine and clear, and apparentlv at 
some distance from me. I stopped and listened ; 
I was so taken by surprise and so interested that I 
quite forgot that one should never listen to con- 

versations not intended for one. I did n't remem- 
ber ever to have heard I must n't listen, for fully 
a week, and this was the dialogue : 

Snow-flake: "Well, the season is over, 
thank goodness, and we shall all be oft' very soon. 
I am so glad ! " 

Blade of Grass: '' The season over. Why, 
what are you talking about? It has just begun." 

S. F. : " That shows what you know of times 
and seasons ! But I don't know why I should 
express the least surprise, when you don't know 
anything about Christmas even, nor do any of 
your family. 1 never knew such ignorance. 
We 've told you the story over and over again ; 
but some persons never learn anything." 

B.OFG. : "Oh, yes! You 've told us stories enough 
and to spare. T/ia/, 1 am quite willing to grant. 
But when it comes to the truth! — that is quite 
another matter. Christmas! Christmas! Christ- 
mas ! It is always Christmas with you the whole 
year around, and I am perfectly sick and tired of 
hearing of it, for it is really yourself that you wish 
to bring into notice all the time. If you could 
only hear one-half of the disagreeable things that 
are said of you, you would certainly be a good deal 
less openly conceited. Wherever I go it is always 
the same thing. Thank Heaven, the snow is gone 
at last ! That dirty, slushy, wretched snow ! How 
I hate it ! " 

S. F. : "What an abominable fib ! Wherever 
I go I hear nothing but good of myself and my 
family ! ' Ah ! Here 's the snow at last ! Now we 
are all right ! Now we shall have some fun ! Ho ! 



for coasting and skating and sleighing, and larks 
generally,' the)' say. And as for being dirty, we are 
the purest, whitest, most beautiful thing in all this 
white world." 

B. OF G. : " The world is n't white at all. It 
is green. I have told you that a thousand times 
at least. I have been all over it, and I know." 

S. F. : " It is white, all white, except where the 
sun strikes it in the evening. I should think I 
ought to know." 

B. OF G. : "You ought to know many things 
that you don't know, and never will, moreover. 
I can tell you that there are whole countries where 
nobody has ever seen or heard of you, and where 
we have lived and flourished for thousands of years." 

S. F. : " And I can tell you that there are other 
countries where not so many as one of you has 
ever been seen, and where we have lived and 
flourished the year round for millions of years." 

B. OF G. : '-Oh! Pooh! Tell that to the 
marines ! What is the name of those countries, 
pray ? Where did your family come from, any- 
way, I should like to know ! " 

S. F. : "My family is of high origin — far, 
far above yours, as everybody knows ; for though 
you are a most impudent young blade, your low 
origin is a thing that you can never, never alter. 
Grow as you will, you will never rise to the height 
I came from, I can tell you." 

B. OF G. : "Well, I would rather strive upward 
than to be always falling into the mire, if that is 
what you mean. You are like poor Rain-drop, 
who can't keep out of the gutter to save his life, 
and is always talking of having ' left heaven so re- 
centty.' Earth is good enough for me; and I 
flatter myself that it would n't be much of a place 
for anybody, but for us." 

S. F. : "Well, your conceit is something colos- 
sal. It gets along perfectly, 1 can assure you, 
without you or yours, for all you think yourself so 
important. Who is it that puffs you up with 
such ideas ? You are green to believe 
them. Where were you on the 25th 
of last December, 

B. OF G. : " Where you will be on the 4th of 
July next, — precisely!" 

S. F. : " The dog-days ! Everybody that is 
anybody always would make a point of escaping 
them. They are only fit, as the Turks say, for 
mad dogs and Englishmen — and you." 

B. OF G. : " They are too good for such as you, 

S. F. : "Look here! Don't you go too far! 
Just you remember that I can call on my family 
and we can kill you all out, whenever we choose to 
act in concert — freeze you right out! Yes, kill 
and bury you, one and all, and tell no tales." 

B. OF G. : "Oh! no! You can't, either. At 
worst you could only stun us tor a while. Kill us 
you never can, nor conquer us, either ; you have 
been trying to, ever since the world was made ; and 
look at you, you poor miserable thing, dying by 
inches, like all your family, on this 5th of April, 
18S9 ! and no nearer doing it than in the year one ! 
The less you talk about fighting us the better. 
We can put a million billion spears in the field in 
three weeks without making the least commotion, 
and sustain them for months without troubling 
anybody to lend us a cent. You had better be 
civil, I can tell you — for you are almost alone, 
and we are Legion. Besides, whenever any of you 
are attacked by enemies you always run away ! 
You know you do. Run away now, and join the 
rest of your family. It will be better for you, and 
we would be ashamed to tackle you — quite 
ashamed, I assure you." 

S. F. (bursting into tears of rage) : " I go, but 
it is because I promised to, six months ago, and 
not because of anything you have said or can do." 

B. OF G. : " Was it furious, perfectly furious ? 
Hold on a bit, and we '11 all sing 'The Wearing 
of the Green ' for you. That always puts you in a 
melting mood, icy as you are in general. It is so 
pathetic. Hold on, 1 say." 

S. F. (indignantly) : " I will not hold on. I am 
going, going, gone ! But I will come 
again. Au revoir, monsieur, un- 
til the 15th of November." 



By Sarah Orne Jewett. 

Chapter IV. 

There was a gnarled old pear-tree of great age 
and size that grew near Betty Leicester's west win- 
dow. By leaning out a little she could touch the 
nearest bough. Aunt Barbara and Aunt Mary said 
that it was a most beautiful thing to see it in bloom 
in the spring ; and the family cats were fond of 
climbing" up and leaping across to the window-sill, 
while there were usually some birds perching in it 
when the coast was clear of pussies. 

One day Betty was looking over from Mary Beck's 
and saw that the west window and the pear-tree 
branch were in plain sight ; so the two girls invented 
a system of signals: one white handkerchief meant 
come over, and two meant no, but a single one in 
answer was for yes. A yellow handkerchief on the 
bough proposed a walk ; and so the code went on, 
and was found capable of imparting much secret 
information. Sometimes the exchange of these 
signals took a far longer time than it did to run 
across from house to house, and at any rate in the 
first fortnight Mary and Betty spent the greater 
part of their waking hours together. Still the signal 
service, as they proudly called it, was of great use. 

One morning, when Mary had been summoned, 
Betty came rushing to meet her. 

" Aunt Barbara is going to let me have a tea- 
party. What do you think of that ? " she cried. 

Mary Beck looked pleased, and then a doubting 
look crept over her face. 

" I don't know any of the boys and girls very 
well except you," Betty explained, "and Aunt Bar- 
bara liked the idea of having them come. Aunt 
Mary thinks that she can't come down, for the ex- 
citement would be too much for her, but I am 
going to tease her again as soon as I have time. 
It is to be a summer-house tea at six o'clock ; it is 
lovely in the garden then. Just as soon as I have 
helped Serena a little longer, you and I will go to 
invite everybody. Serena is letting me beat eggs." 

It was a great astonishment that Betty should 
take the serious occasion so lightly. Mary Beck 
would have planned it at least a week beforehand, 
and worried and worked and been in despair ; but 
here was Betty as gay as possible, and as for Aunt 
Barbara and Serena and Letty, they were gay too. 
It was entirely mysterious. 


" I have sent word by Jonathan to the Picknell 
girls; he had an errand on that road. They looked 
so old and scared in church last Sunday that I kept 
thinking that they ought to have a good time. They 
don't come in to the village much, do they ? " 

" Hardly ever, except Sundays," answered Mary 
Beck. "They turn red if you only look at them, 
but they are always talking together when they 
go by. One of them can draw beautifully. Oh, 
of course I go to school with them, but 1 don't 
know them very well." 

" I hope they 'II come, don't you ? " said Betty, 
whisking away at the eggs. " I don't know when 
I 've ever been where I could have a little party. 
I can have two or three girls to luncheon almost 
any time, especially in London, but that 's differ- 
ent. Who else now, Becky ? Let 's see if we choose 
the same ones." 

" Mary and Julia Picknell, and Mary and Ellen 
Grant, and Lizzie French, and George Max, and 
Frank Crane, and my cousin Jim Beck, — Dan 's too 
little. They would be eight, and you and I make 
ten — oh, that 's too many ! " 

" Dear me, no ! " said Betty lightly. " I thought 
of the Fosters, too " 

" We don't have much to do with the Fosters," 
said Mary Beck. " I don't see why that Nelly 
Foster started up and came to see you. I never 
go inside her house now. Everybody despises her 
father " 

" I think that Nelly is a dear-looking girl," 
insisted Betty. " I like her ever so much." 

" They acted so stuck-up after Mr. Foster was 
put in jail," Mary went on. " People pitied them 
at first and were carrying about a subscription- 
paper, but Mrs. Foster would n't take anything, 
and said that they were going to support them- 
selves. People don't like Mrs. Foster very well." 

"Aunt Barbara respects her very much. She 
says that few women would show the courage she 
has shown. Perhaps she has n't a nice way of 
speaking, but Aunt Barbara said that I must ask 
Harry and Nelly, when we were talking about to- 
night." Betty could not help a tone of triumph; 
she and Becky had fought a little about the Fosters 
before this. 

" Harry is like a wild Indian," said Mary Beck; 
" he goes fishing and trapping almost all the time. 



He won't know what to do at a party. I believe 
he makes ever so much money with his fish, and 
pays bills with it." Becky relented a little now. 
"Oh, dear, I haven't anything nice enough to 
wear," she added suddenly. "We never have 
parties in Tideshead, except at the vestry in the 
winter; and they're so poky." 

"But I don't know what Harry will say," she 
added doubtfully. 

"Please ask him to be sure to come," urged 
Betty. " I should be so disappointed, and Aunt 
Barbara asked me to say that she depended upon 
him, for she knows him better than she does 
almost any of the young people." Nelly looked 


" Oh, wear anything ; it 's going to be hot, that 's 
all," said industrious Betty, in her business-like 
checked apron ; and it now first dawned upon 
Becky's honest mind that it was not worth while 
to make one's self utterly miserable about one's 

The two girls went scurrying away like squirrels 
presently to invite the guests. Nelly Foster looked 
delighted at the thought of such a pleasure. 

radiant at this, but Mary Beck was much offended. 
"I go to your Aunt Barbara's oftener than any- 
body," she said jealously, as they came away. 

" She asked me to say that, and I did," main- 
tained Betty. " Don't be cross, Becky, it 's going 
to be such a jolly tea-party. Why, here 's Jona- 
than back again already. Oh, good ! the Pick- 
nells are happy to come." 

Tin- rest of the guests were quickly made sure 




of, and Betty and Mary went back to the house. 
It made Betty a little disheartened to find that 
her friend took every proposition on the wrong 
side ; she seemed to think most things about a tea- 
party were impossible, and that all were difficult, 
and she saw lions in the way at every turn. It struck 
Betty, who was used to taking social events easily, 
that there was no pleasuring at all in the old 
village, though people were always saying how 
gay and delightful it used to be and how many 
guests used to come to town in the summer. 

The old Leicester garden was a lovely place on 
a summer evening. Aunt Barbara had been sur- 
prised when Betty insisted that she wished to have 
supper there instead of in the dining-room; but 
Betty had known too many out-of-door feasts in 
foreign countries not to remember how charming 
they were and how small any dining-room seems 
in summer. And after a few minutes thought, 
Aunt Barbara, too, who had been in France 
long before, asked Serena and Letty to spread 
the table under the large cherry-tree near the 
arbor ; and there it stood presently, with its white 
cloth, and pink roses in two china bowls, all ready 
for the sandwiches and bread and butter and straw- 
berries and sponge-cake, and chocolate to drink out 
of the prettiest cups in Tideshead. It was all sim- 
ple and gay and charming, the little feast ; and full 
of grievous self-consciousness as the shyest guest 
might have been when first met by Betty at the 
doorstep, the fun of the party itself proved most 
contagious, and all fears were forgotten. Every- 
body met on common ground for once, without 
any thought of self. It came with surprise to more 
than one gill's mind that a party was so well worth 
the trouble. It was such a pity that somebody 
did not have one every week. 

Aunt Barbara was very good to Harry Foster, who 
seemed at first much older and soberer than the 
rest; but Betty demanded his services when she 
was going to pass the sandwiches again, and Letty 
had gone to the house for another pot of chocolate. 
" I will take the bread and butter, and you may 
pass these," she said. And away they went to the 
rest of the company, who were scattered along the 
arbor benches by twos and threes. 

•' I saw you in your boat when I first came up the 
river," Betty found time to say. " I did n't know 
who you were then, though I was sure you were 
one of the boys whom I used to play with. ome 
time when Nelly is going down, could n't you take 
me too ? I can row." 

" Nelly would go if you would. I never thought 
to ask her. I always wish there were somebody 
else to see how pleasant it is" — and then a voice 
interrupted to ask what Harry was catching now. 

" Bass," said Harry, with brightening face. " I 

do so well that I am sending them down to River- 
port every day that the packet goes, and I wish 
that I had somebody to help me. You don't know 
what a rich old river it is ! " 

" Why, if here is n't Aunt Mary ! " cried Betty. 
Sure enough the eager voices and the laughter had 
attracted another guest. And Aunt Barbara sprang 
up joyfully and called for a shawl and foot-stool 
from the house ; but Betty did n't wait for them, 
and brought Aunt Mar)- to the arbor bench. 
Nobody knew when the poor lady had been in her 
own garden before, but here she was at last, and 
had her supper with the rest. The good doctor 
would have been delighted enough if he had seen 
the sight. 

Nothing had ever tasted so good as that out-of- 
door supper. The white June moon came up, and its 
bright light made the day longer ; and when every- 
body had eaten a last piece of sponge-cake, and 
the heap of strawberries on a great round India 
dish had been leveled, what should be heard but 
sounds of a violin. Betty had discovered that 
Seth Pond, — the clumsy, good-natured Seth of all 
people! — had, as he said, "ears for music," and 
had taught himself to play. 

So they had a country-dance on the green, girls 
and boys and Aunt Barbara, who had been a 
famous dancer in her youth ; and those who did n't 
know the steps of money-musk and the Virginia reel, 
were put in the middle of the line, and had plenty of 
time to learn before their turns came. Afterward 
Seth played "Bonny Doon." and "Nelly was a 
Lady," and ■'Johnny Comes Marching Home," 
and "Annie Laurie," and half a dozen other songs, 
and everybody sang, but, to Betty's delight, Mary 
Beck's voice led all the rest. 

The moon was high in the sky when the guests 
went away. It seemed like a new world to some 
young folks who were there, and everybody was 
surprised because everybody else looked so pretty 
and was so surprisingly gay. Yet, here it was, the 
same old Tideshead after all ! 

"Aunt Barbara," said Betty, as that aunt sat 
on the side of Betty's four-post bed ; "Aunt Bar- 
bara, don't say good-night just yet. I must talk 
about one or two things before I forget them in the 
morning. Mary Picknell asked me ever so many 
questions about some of the pictures in the library ; 
but she knows more about them than I do, and I 
thought I would ask her to come some day so that 
you could tell her everything. She must be an 
artist. Did n't you see how she kept looking at 
the pictures ? And then Henry Foster knows a 
lovely place down the river for a picnic, and can 
borrow boats enough beside his own to take us 
all there only it 's a secret yet. Harry said that 
it was a beautiful point of land, with large trees, 




and that there was a lane that came across the 
fields from the road, so that you could be driven 
down to meet us, if you disliked the boats." 

"I am very fond of being on the water," said 
Aunt Barbara, with great spirit. " I knew that 
point, and those oak-trees, long before either of you 
was born. It was very polite of Harry to think 
of my coming with the young folks. Yes. we '11 
think about the picnic, certainly, but you must 
go to sleep now, Betty." 

"Aunt Barbara must have been such a nice 
girl," thinks Betty, as the door shuts. ••And, if 
we go, Henry must take her in his boat. It is 
strange that Mary Beck should not like the Fos- 
ters, just because their father was a scamp." 

But the room was still and dark, and sleepiness 
got the better of Betty's thoughts that night. 

Chapter V. 

Everybody was as kind as possible when Betty 
Leicester first came to Tideshead, and best com- 
pany manners prevailed toward her ; but as the 
girls got used to having a new friend and playmate, 
some of them proved disappointing. Nothing could 
shake her deep affection for honest-hearted Mary 
Beck, but in some directions Mary had made up 
her inexperienced and narrow mind, and would 
listen to none of Betty's kindly persuasions. The 
Fosters' father had done some very dishonest deeds, 
and had run away from justice after defrauding 
some of the most trustful of his neighbors. Mary 
Beck's mother had lost some money in this way, 
and old Captain Beck even more, so that the girl 
had heard sharp comments and indignant blame at 
home ; and she shocked Miss Barbara Leicester and 
Betty one morning by wondering how Henry and 
Nelly Foster could have had the face to go to church 
the very Sunday after their father was sent to jail. 
She did not believe that they cared a bit what peo- 
ple thought. 

" Poor children." said Miss Leicester, with quiet 
compassion, " the sight of their pitiful young faces 
was enough for me. When should one go to church 
if not when in bitter trouble ? That boy and girl 
lately look years older than the rest of you young 

" It never seemed to me that they thought any 
less of themselves," said Mary Beck, in a disagree- 
able tone ; " and I would n't ask them to my party, 
if I had one." 

" But they have worked so hard," said Bettv. 
"Jonathan said yesterday that Harry Foster told 
him this spring, when he was working here, that 
he was going to pay every cent that his father owed, 
if he lived long enough. He is studying hard, too ; 
you know that he hoped to go to college before 

this happened. They always look as if they were 
grateful for just being spoken to." 

" Plenty of people have made everything of them 
and turned their heads," said Mary Beck, as if she 
were repeating something that had been said at 
home. " I think I should pity some people whose fa- 
ther had behaved so, but I don't like the Fosters abit. " 

" They are carrying a heavy load on their young 
shoulders," said Miss Barbara Leicester. "You 
will feel differently by and by, about them. Help 
them all you can, Mary ! " 

Mary Beck went home that morning much dis- 
pleased. She did n't mean to be hard-hearted, but 
it had seemed to her like proper condemnation of 
wrong-doing to treat the Fosters loftily. Now that 
Betty's eyes had filled with tears as she listened, 
and Miss Leicester evidently thought less of her for 
what had been said, Mary began to feel doubtful 
about the matter. Yes, what if her father had 
been like theirs — could she be shut up like a 
prisoner, and behave as she expected the Fosters 
to behave? By the time she reached her own 
house, she was ashamed of what she had said. 
Miss Leicester was at that moment telling Betty 
that she was astonished at such bitter feeling in 
their young neighbor. " She has never really 
thought about it. I dare say she only needs a 
sensible word or two to change her mind. You 
children have such tremendous opinions." And 
Aunt Barbara smiled. 

" Once when I was staying in the Isle of Wight," 
said Betty, " I belonged to such a nice out-of-door 
club, Aunt Barbara." 

" Did you ? What was it like ? " 

"Oh, not really like anything that I can think 
of, only we had great fun together. We used to 
walk miles and miles, and carry some buns or buy 
them, and get milk or ginger-beer at the farms. 
There are so many ruins to go to see, and old 
churches, and homes of eminent persons of the time 
of Elizabeth, and we would read from their works, 
and it was so pleasant coming home by the foot- 
paths afterward," announced Betty with satisfac- 
tion. " The governesses used to go, too, but we 
could outrun all but one of them, the Duncans' 
Miss Winter, who was as dear as could be. I had 
my lessons with the Duncans for quite a while. Oh, 
it was such fun ! — the others would let us go on as 
fast as we liked and come poking along together, 
and have their own quiet pleasures." Betty was 
much diverted with her recollections. " I mean to 
begin an out-of-door club here, Aunt Barbara." 

" In my time," said Aunt Barbara, " girls were 
expected to know how to sew, and to learn to be 
good housekeepers." 

"You would join the club, would n't you?" 
asked Bettv, anxiously. 



[ May, 

"And be run away from, like the stout govern- have no demands made upon her. There were 

esses, I dare say." days when Betty had a plan for every half-hour, 

There was an attempt at a serious expression, remarked Aunt Barbara indulgently, 
but Miss Leicester could not help laughing a little. " Suppose you come out to the garden with me 

Down came Miss Mary at this moment, with Letty to pick some currants?" and Betty was quietly 


behind her, carrying cushions, and Betty sprang removed from the weak nerves of Aunt Mary, who 

ti]) to help make the couch ready. plaintively said that Betty had almost too much 

" I wish that you would belong, too, and come life. 

with us on wheels," said she, returning to the sub- " Too much life ! Not a bit of it," said Serena, 

ject that had been interrupted. " You could drive who was the grandniece's chief upholder and cham- 

to the meetings and be head-member, Aunt Mary." pion. " We did need waking up, 'twasafact, Miss 

But Aunt Mary was tired that day, and wished to Leicester; now, wa' n't it? It seemed just like 



old times, that night of the tea-party. Trouble is, 
we Ve all got to bein' too master comfortable, and 
thought we could n't step one foot out o' the 
beaten rut. 'T is the misfortune o' livin' in a little 

And Serena marched back to the kitchen, carry- 
ing the empty glass from which Miss Mary Leices- 
ter had taken some milk, as if it were the banner 
of liberty. 

She put it down on the clean kitchen-table. 
" Too much life ! " the good woman repeated 
scornfully. " I 'd like to see a gal that had too 
much life for me. I was that kind myself, and 
right up an' doin'. All these Tideshead gals be- 
have as slow as the month o' December. Fussin' 
about their clothes, and fussin' about 'you do this ' 
and 'I can't do that,' an' lettin' folks that know 
something ride right by 'em. See this little Betty 
now, sweet as white laylocks, I do declare. There 
she goes 'long o' Miss Barbary, out into the cur- 
rant bushes." 

" Aunt Barbara," Betty was saying a few min- 
utes later, as one knelt each side of the row of 
white currants, '"Aunt Barbara, do you like best 
being grown up or being about as old as I am ? " 

"Being grown up, I 'm sure, dear," replied the 
aunt, after serious reflection. 

" I 'm so glad. I don't believe people ever have 
such hard times with themselves afterward, as they 
do growing up." 

" What is the matter now, Betty ? " 

" Mary Beck, Aunt Barbara. I thought that I 
liked her ever and ever so much, but I have days 
when I want to shake her. It 's my fault, because 
I wake up and think about her and feel cross before 
I even look at her, and then I can't get on all day. 
Then some days I can hardly wait to get over to 
see her, and we have such a good time. But you 
can't change her mind about anything." 

" I thought that you would n't be so intimate all 
summer," said Aunt Barbara, picking very fast. 
" You see that you expect Mary Beck to be perfect, 
and the poor child is n't. You made up a Mary 
Beck in your own mind, who was perfect at all 
points and just the kind of a girl you would like 
best to spend all your time with. Be thankful for 
all you do like in her; that 's the best way." 

" I just fell in love with a girl in the Isle of 
Wight last summer," said Betty sorrowfully. " We 
wanted to be together all the time, and we wrote 
notes and always went about together. She was 
older than I ; but one day she said things that 
made me forget I ever liked her a bit. She wanted 
to make up afterward, but I couldn't ; and she 
writes and writes me letters, but I never wish to 
see her again. I am sorry I ever liked her." 
Betty's eyes flashed, and her cheeks were very red. 

" I suppose it has been hard for her, too," said 
Aunt Barbara ; " but we must like different friends 
for different reasons. Just try to remember that 
you can not find perfection. I used to know a great 
many girls when I was growing up, and some of 
them are my friends still, the few who are left. To 
find one true-hearted friend is worth living through 
a great many disappointments." 

Two or three weeks went over before Betty ceased 
to have the feeling that she was a stranger and 
foreigner in Tideshead. At first she said " you " 
and " I " when she was talking with the girls, but 
soon it became easier to say " we." She took great 
pleasure in doing whatever the rest did, from 
joining a class in Sunday-school to carrying round 
one of the subscription-papers to pay for some 
Fourth of July fireworks, which went up in a blaze 
of splendor on the evening of that glorious day. 

After the garden tea-party, nothing happened, of 
a social nature, for some time, although several of 
the boys and girls gave fine hints that something 
might be expected to happen at their own houses. 
There was a cheerful running to and fro about the 
Leicester house, and the large white gate next the 
street was heard to creak and clack at least once 
in every half-hour. Betty grew fond of the minis- 
ter's daughters, who were sweet-faced girls, but 
very timid and anxious about every-day life. Nelly 
Foster came seldom, but she was the brightest and 
merriest of all the girls when she grew a little ex- 
cited, and lost the frightened look that had made 
lines on her forehead much too soon. Harry was 
not seen very often, but Betty wondered a great 
deal about him, and fancied him hunting and fish- 
ing in all sorts of dangerous places. The Picknell 
girls came into the village on Sundays always, and 
often once or twice in the week ; but it was haying 
time now, and they were very busy at the farm. 
Betty liked them dearly, and so did Mary Beck, 
who did not get on with the minister's daughters 
at all, and had a prejudice, as we know, against 
Nelly Foster. These made the little company which 
seemed most closely allied, though there were three 
or four other young people who made part of the 
larger enterprises. Betty had proposed the out-of- 
door club, and had started a tennis-court, and de- 
voted much time to it, but nobody knew how to 
play very well yet, except Harry Foster and Julia 
Picknell, and they were the most difficult ones to 
catch for an idle afternoon. George Max could play, 
and one or two others could stumble through a 
game and like it pretty well ; but as for Mary Beck, 
her shoes were too small for much agility, and she 
liked to wear her clothes so tight that she was very 
clumsy with a racket. Betty's light little gowns 
looked prim and plain to the Tideshead girls, who 




thought their colors very strange to begin with, 
and had not the sense to be envious when their 
wearer went by, as light-footed and graceful as they 
were awkward. They could not understand the 
simplicity that was natural to Betty, but everybody 
liked her, and felt as much interested in her as if 
she were an altogether new variety of human be- 
ing. Perhaps we shall understand the situation 
better if we read a letter which our heroine wrote 
just then : 

" My Dear Papa : This is from your Betly, who 
had intended to take a long walk with Mary Beck this 
afternoon, but is prevented by a thunder-shower. It 
makes me wonder what you do when you get wet, and 
who sees that you take off your wet clothes and tries not 
to let you have a cold. Is n't it almost time for you to 
come home now, Papa ? I do miss taking care of you so 
very much. You will be tired hearing about Mary Beck, 
and you can't stop it, can you ? as if you laughed and then 
talked about something else when we were walking to- 
gether. You must remember that you said we must be al- 
ways fighting an enemy in ourselves, and my enemy just 
now is making little funs of Mary, and seeing that she 
does n't know so much as she thinks she does. I like too 
well to show her that she is mistaken when she tells about 
things ; but it makes me sorry afterward, because, in 
spite of myself, I like her better than I do anybody. I 
almost love her, Papa ; indeed, I do, but I like to tease 
her better than to help her, and she puts on airs about 
the very places where I have been and things I have done. 
Aunt Barbara does n't like her, and wishes I would ' play 
with ' Nelly Foster and the minister's girls, but Nelly 
is like anybody grown up. I suppose it is because she 
has seen trouble, as people say here ; and the minister's 
girls are little 'f raid cats. That is what Serena says, and 
is sure to make vou laugh. 'Try and make 'em hop 
'round,' Serena told me at the party, and I did try ; 
but they are n't good hoppers, and that 's all there is 
to say. I sent down to Riverport and bought Seth a 
book of violin airs, and he practiced until two o'clock 
one morning, so that Serena and Jonathan were saving 
dreadful things. Aunt Mary is about the same, and so 
is Aunt Barbara, and they send their love. Papa, you 
must never tell, but I hate the one and love the other. 
Mary Beck is n't half so bad as I am to say that, but now 
it is written down and must stay. There is one awful 
piece of news. The Fosters' father has broken out of 
jail and escaped, and they are offering a great reward, 
and it is in all the papers. I ought to go to see Nelly, 
but I dread it. I am writing this last page another day, for 
yesterday the sun came out after the shower and I went 
out with Aunt Barbara. She is letting Mrs. Fosterdosome 
sewing for me. She says that my clothes were in ruins. 
She did, indeed, and that they had been badly washed. I 
hope that yours are not the same. Mrs. Foster looked 
terribly frightened and pale, and asked Aunt B. to come 
into the other room, and told her about Mr. Foster. 
Then it was in the paper last night. Papa dear, I do 
remember what you said in one of your letters about be- 
ing a Tideshead girl myself for this summer, and not 
standing off and finding fault. I feel more like a Tides- 
head girl lately, but I wish they would n't keep saying 
how slow it is and nothing going on. We might do so 
many nice things, but they make such great fusses first, 
instead of just going and doing them, the way you and I 
do. They think of every reason why you can't do things 
that you can do. The currants are all gone. You can't 
have a currant pie this year. I thought those by the 
fence under the cherry-tree might last until you came, 
because it is shady, but they all spoiled in the rain. 

Now I am going to read in ' Walton's Lives ' to Aunt 
Mary. She says it is a book everybody ought to know, 
and that I run wild more than I ought at my age. I like 
to read aloud, as you know, so good-bye, but my age is 
such a trouble. If you were here we would have the 
best good time. Your own child, 


Chapter VI. 

That afternoon Betty's lively young voice grew 
droning and dull after a while, as she read the life 
of Dr. Donne, and at last she stopped altogether. 

"Aunt Mary, I can't help thinking about the 
Fosters' father. Do you suppose he will come 
home and frighten them some night ? " 

" No, he would hardly dare to come where they 
are sure to be looking for him," said Aunt Mary. 
" Dear me, the thought makes me so nervous." 

" When I have read to the end of this page I 
will just run down to see Nelly a few minutes, if 
you can spare me. I keep dreading to see her 
until I am almost afraid to go." 

Miss Mary sighed and said yes. Somehow she 
did n't get hold of Betty's love, — only her duty. 

Betty lingered in the garden and picked some 
mignonette before she started, and a bright carna- 
tion or two from Aunt Barbara's special plants. 
The Fosters' house was farther down the street on 
the same side, and Nelly's blinds were shut, but if 
Betty had only known it, poor Nelly was looking 
out wistfully through them, and wishing with all 
her heart that her young neighbor would come in. 
She dreaded the meeting, too, but there was such 
a simple, frank, friendliness about Betty Leicester 
that it did not hurt as if one of the other girls had 

There was the sound of the gate-latch, and Nelly 
went eagerly down. " Come up to my room ; I 
was sitting there sewing," she said, blushing very 
red, and Betty felt her own cheeks burn. How 
dreadful it must be not to have such a comforting 
dear father as hers ! She put her arms around 
Nelly's neck and kissed her, and Nelly could hardly 
keep from crying; but upstairs they went to the 
bedroom, where Betty had never happened to go 
before. She felt suddenly, as she never had before, 
how pinched and poor the Fosters must be. Nelly 
was determined to be brave and took up her sewing 
again. It happened to be a little waist of Betty's 
own. Betty tried to talk gayly about being very 
tired of reading " Walton's Lives." 

•'Harry reads 'Walton's Angler,'" said Nelly. 
" That 's the same man, is n't he ? It is a stupid- 
looking old brown book that belonged to my 

" Papa reads it, too," said Betty, nodding her 
head wisely. " I am in such a hurry to have him 
come, when I think of Harry. I am sure that he 



will help him to be a naturalist or something like 
that. Mr. Buckland would have just loved Harry. 
I knew him when I was a little bit of a thing. Papa 
used to take me to see him in London, and all his 
dreadful beasts used to frighten me, but I feel very 
differently now, of coarse. Harry makes me think 
of Robinson Crusoe and Mayne Reid's books, and 

two of Miss Barbara Leicester's new tea-napkins. 
Betty had many things to say about her English 
life and her friends. Mary Beck never cared to hear 
much about England, and it was delightful now 
to have an interested listener. At last the sewing 
was finished, and Nelly proposed that they should 
go a little way farther, and come out to the river 


— T% 


those boys who used to do such wild things fishing 
and hunting." 

"We used to think Harry never would get on 
because he spent so much time in the woods, but 
somehow he always learned his lessons, too," said 
Nelly proudly ; "and now liis fishing brings in so 
much money that I don't know how we shall live 
when winter comes. We are so anxious about 
winter. Oh, Betty, it is easy to tell you, but I 
can't bear to have other people even look at me " ; 
and she burst into tears and hid her face in her 
hands. • 

" Let us go outdoors, just down through the 
garden and across into the woods a little while," 
pleaded Betty. " Do, Nelly dear ! " and presently 
they were on their way. The fresh summer air and 
the sunshine were much better than the close- 
shaded room, with Nelly startled by every sound 
about the house, and they soon lost their first feeling 
of constraint as they sat under a pine-tree whipping 

bank. Harry would be coming up about this time 
with his fare of fish, if he had had good luck. It 
would be fun to shout to him as he went by. 

They pushed on together through the open pas- 
ture where the sweet-fern and bayberry bushes 
grew tall and thick ; there was another strip of 
woods between them and the river, and just this 
side of it was a deserted house. It had not been 
lived in for many years and was gray and crum- 
bling. The fields that belonged to it had been 
made part of a great sheep pasture, and two or 
three sheep were standing by the half-opened door, 
as if they were quite at home there in windy or 
wet weather. Betty had seen the old house be- 
fore and thought it was most romantic. She pro- 
posed now that they should have a picnic there by 
and by, and make a fire in the old fireplace, but 
Nelly Foster thought there would be great danger 
of burning the house down. 

" Suppose we go and look in ?" pleaded Betty. 




" Mary Beck and I saw it not long after I came, 
and she thought it was going to rain, so that we 
did n't stop. I love to go into an empty old ruin 
and make up stories about it and wonder who used 
to live there. Don't stop to pick these blueberries ; 
you know they are n't half ripe," she teased Nelly ; 
and so they went over to the old house, frightening 
away the sheep as they crossed the doorstep boldly. 
It was all in ruins, the roof was broken about the 
chimney so that the sun shone through upon the 
floor, and the light-red bricks were softened and 
sifting down. In one corner there was a heap of 
withes for mending fences, which had been pulled 
about by the sheep, and there were some mud nests 
of swallows high against the walls, but the birds 
seemed to have already left them. This room 
had been the kitchen, and behind it was a dark, 
small place which must have been a bedroom 
when people lived there, dismal as it looked now. 

" I am going to look in here and all about the 
place," said Betty, cheerfully, and stepped in to 
see what she could find. 

" Oh, come back, Nelly ! " she screamed, in a 
great fright, the next moment; and they fled out 
of the house into the warm sunshine. They had 
had time to see that a man was lying on the floor 
as if he were dead. Stop ! as they held their 
breath and heard a groan, which made them go 
away in breathless haste, a terrible fear possessed 
them. Betty's heart beat at last so that she could 
hardly speak. 

" We must get somebody to come," she panted, 
trying to stop Nelly. " Was it somebody dead?" 

But Nelly sank down as pale as ashes into the 
sweet-fern bushes and looked at her strangely. 
" Oh, Betty Leicester, it will kill Mother, it will 
kill her! I believe it was my father; what shall 
I do ! " 

They looked fearfully at the house; the sheep 
had come back and stood again near the door-way. 
There was something more horrible than the two 
girls had ever known in the silence of the place. 
It would have been less awful if there had been a 
face at the broken door or windows. 

"Henry — we must try to stop Henry," said 
poor pale Nelly, and they hurried toward the river 
shore. They could not help looking anxiously 
behind them as they passed the belt of pines, but 
for some reason or other the fugitive gave no sign 
of wishing to pursue. " He is afraid that some- 
body will see him. I am so afraid he will come 
home to-night." 

" He must be ill there," said Betty, but she did 
not dare to say anything else. What an unendur- 
able thing to be afraid and ashamed of one's own 
father ! 

They looked down the river with eager eyes. 

Yes, there was Harry Foster's boat coming up 
slowly, with the three-cornered sail spread to catch 
the light breeze. Nelly gave a long sigh and sank 
down on the turf and covered her face as she cried 
bitterly. Betty thought, with cowardly longing, 
of the quiet and safety of Aunt Mary's room and 
the brown-covered volume of "Walton's Lives." 
Then she summoned all her courage. These two 
might never have sorer need of a friend than in 
this summer afternoon. 

Henry Foster's boat sailed but slowly. It was 
heavily laden, and the wind was so light that from 
time to time he urged it with the oars. He did not 
see the two girls waiting on the bank until he was 
close to them, for the sun was in his eyes and his 
thoughts were busy. His father's escape from jail 
was worse than any sorrow yet ; nobody knew what 
might come of it. Harry felt very old and careworn 
for a boy of sixteen. He had determined to go to 
see Miss Barbara Leicester that evening and to 
talk over his troubles with her. He had been able 
to save a little money, and he feared that it might 
be demanded. He had already paid off part of the 
smaller debts that were owed in the village; but 
he knew his father too well not to be afraid of get- 
ting some menacing letters presently. If he had 
only fled the country; but how could that be done 
without money? His father would not work his 
passage; Harry was certain enough of that. Would 
it not be better to let him have the money and go 
to the farthest limit to which it could carry him ? 

Something made the young man shade his eyes 
with his hand and look toward the shore, then he 
took the oars and pulled quickly in ; that was surely 
his sister Nelly, and the girl who wore a grayish 
gingham dress with a scarlet handkerchief at her 
throat was Betty Leicester. It was just like kind- 
hearted little Betty to have teased poor Nelly out 
into the woods. He would carry them home in 
his boat ; he could rub it clean with some hand- 
fuls of hemlock twigs or river grass ; then he saw 
how strangely they looked, as he pushed the boat 
in and pulled it far ashore. What in the world 
had happened ? 

Nelly tried to speak again and again, but her 
voice could not make itself heard. "Oh, don't 
cry any more, Nelly dear," said Betty, trembling 
from head to foot, and very pale. " We went into 
the old house up there by the pasture, and found — 
Nelly said it was your father, and we thought he 
was very ill." 

"I'll take you both home, then," said Harry 
Foster, speaking quickly and with a hard voice. 
" Get in, both of you — this is the shortest way — 
then I '11 come back by myself." 

" Oh, no, no ! " sobbed Nelly. " He looked as 
if he were dying, Harry ; he was lying on the floor. 



5 2 ; 

We will go, too; he could n't hurt us, could he ? " 
And the three turned back into the woods. Betty's 
heart almost failed her. She felt like a soldier go- 
ing into battle. Oh, could she muster bravery 
enough to go into that house again ? Yet she loved 
her father so much that doing this for another girl's 
father wa-s a great comfort, in all her fear. 

The young man hurried ahead when they came 
near the house, and it was only a few minutes be- 
fore he reappeared. 

" You must go and tell mother to come as quick 
as she can ; and hurry to find the doctor and tell 
him ; he will know what to do. Father has been 
dreadfully hurt somehow. Perhaps Miss Leicester 
will let Jonathan come to help us get him home." 
Harry Foster's face looked old and strange ; he 
never would seem like a boy any more, Betty 
thought, with a heart full of sympathy. She hur- 
ried away with Nelly ; they could not bring help 
fast enough. 

C To be concluded. ) 

^fh<& pigWTO<sd fHffim"m 

Cin Oztec fragment 

ims poa.ohmg OzUc cinole-r d.o&s not see. 
That Owner of the leiKe behind, the, tree.. 

Bub when he lands his prize, 

That Ocelot will rise , l 

-A.nd the man will cry. fi%^ 

O, Goodness Me-!" JSS~ 


By E. H. Barbour. 

The prettiest little "monster" that I have ever 
seen was a young two-headed painted tortoise (C/try- 
semys pic/a), caught last June by Master Leighton 
Foster, while hunting for Natural History speci- 
mens in the marshes bordering West River, in 
New Haven, Connecticut. 

This pretty little pet, the shell of which was quite 
normal save that it was a little broader than long, 
had the usual four legs and a tail, but was fur- 
nished with two perfectly formed heads and necks, 
which acted independently of one another — so 
independently, in fact, that the right and left heads 
fought like little Trojans, whenever there was occa- 
sion for jealousy or spite. 

Now, the tortoise is generally thought a dull and 
stupid creature, but this little fellow knew the 
hand that fed him and refused to cat anything, 
however tempting, from strangers. The favorite 
morsel of these twin heads was a cricket or grass- 
hopper. But the head lucky enough to seize it 
first, found its right to sole possession stoutly con- 
tested by the other. Since they were equals in age 
and strength, and had fair and equal advantages 
in every way, these spirited little tugs-of-war ended 
only when the morsel separated. Then each, think- 
ing itself the hero, gulped its portion with great 
satisfaction. They seemed healthy and ate with 
evident relish, and consumed equal amounts ; but 
often their appetites were not the same, for at feed- 
ing-time the greed of one and abstinence of the 
other showed they were not equally hungry. Re- 
peatedly I have seen one little head turn slyly around 
and snap at the bright eye of the other, plainly mis- 
taking it for something to eat, and causing that 
head to withdraw hastily into the shell. And thereby 
there is suggested a point of continual discussion 
between these two heads which I fear was never 
settled amicably. For it often happened that both 
heads were inclined to withdraw into their common 
shell or house at the same time, which they could 
do, it is true ; but when both were in it was plainly 
very crowded. 

Now, if there is any one privilege peculiarly that 
of the tortoise, it is the privilege of withdrawing at 
its own sweet will into its own private shell, with- 
out any considerations for outsiders. Certainly, 
it would be a very lax and easy-going tortoise that 
would yield its long-established right to seclusion, 

and submit peaceably to the encroachment of 
another ; so these heads quarreled daily. Some- 
times one head wished to look around, and then 
the other enjoyed the luxury of the shell in peace, 
but in course of time the twin was sure to withdraw, 
too. Then the two heads would fidget irritably ; 
only for a brief moment, however, for they came 
out almost at once, as indignant and angry as their 
tender years would allow, and, closing their eyes, 
beat their heads together and fought with all their 





might, till some compromise was effected. These 
werethemost amusing and absurdlittle scrimmages 
imaginable. Just think of one itself engaged in 
deadly combat with another itself; what an 
absurdity ! — but so it was. And neither one could 
go away to leave the other and sulk and pout 



about it, so they generally gave up when tired out 
and wisely agreed to disagree. 

When sleep overcame one head, it withdrew, 
together with its two feet, into the shell. But the 
companion head, wide-awake and looking about in 
all directions, might simultaneously decide to be up 
and doing, and then it would start off vigorously 
with the two feet belonging to its side of the house ; 
but its efforts were vain : it only went round and 
round in a circle, the sleeping side acting as a dead- 
weight. It did n't seem to mind it much, how- 
ever, but continued on its journey uninterruptedly 
till the sleeper awoke, whereupon the two sides 
started off in unison, but with the most awkward 
gait possible. For, instead of putting a fore foot 
forward, like the normal tortoise, following im- 
mediately with a diagonally opposite hind foot, 
this little monster stepped out with its front feet at 
once, so that its fore parts were left without support, 
and dropped ; then the hind feet stepped forward, 
leaving the hind parts without support, and they 
dropped in turn ; and thus, bobbing up and down, 
it advanced by an awkward, rocking gait. 

But the sleeper, roused abruptly, was not always 
disposed to start off at once with its companion, 
so the other scurried around as best it could till 
convinced that a circle is endless, and that it must 
have recourse to other expedients than those pro- 
vided by nature. Out of its necessity, surprising 
as it may appear, this little monster had invented 
a way of getting about. Extending its two feet, it 
clutched at grass and weeds, and so dragged itself 
sideways, and went when it would, or where it chose, 
whether the other side slept, or, being awake, 
took its ease, refusing to budge. I have seen them 
walk thus, repeatedly; but it was the invention of 
the right head, and the left never resorted to it so 
far as I could observe. Thus it will be seen that 
there was no concerted action between the right side 
and the left, and yet they started together, with sur- 
prising frequency, to do precisely the same things : 
to eat, to swim, or to walk. 

A smooth concrete walk was a favorite place for 
giving this pet an occasional sun-bath. When 
placed on this, or on a smooth piece of ground, it 
went through some queer antics before starting. 
First, the left head turned to the left, the right to 
the right, after gazing vacantly about for a time, 
they at length started off with a will in these two 
opposite directions at once. The result is, of 
course, that opposing one another as they did, they 
went backward, sometimes two or three feet, before 
they found how useless were their efforts to go each 
his own way. But when they ascertained this, they 
stopped short, and, after a moment's rest, started 
off together, teetering up and down, but traveling 
straight along till a stalk of grass or a weed was 

encountered. This was sure to bring them to a 
standstill, for one insisted upon turning to the left 
of it, the other to the right, which brought them 
astride the weed, where they stood, tugging away 
obstinately till strength failed them. 

A ledge along the concrete walk, not over three- 
quarters of an inch high, easily scaled by other pet 
tortoises of the same age, proved an insurmounta- 
ble barrier for a long time. But. finally, the two- 
headed tortoise, with its two wills and two walking 
systems, learned to stand up on tiptoe by the 
ledge, and, giving a sudden kick, to throw itself 
over, but so violently at first that it invariably 
landed on its back, a most unfortunate predica- 
ment in its case, from which, unlike the normal 
tortoise, it could not extricate itself without help. 
But it soon learned to clear the ledge and alight 
right side up on the other side. 

Every one who saw these queer maneuvers and 
the intelligence displayed in the adapting of 
means to ends for which it was so poorly fitted by 
nature, was charmed with the little pet. 

In the water of its aquarium it paddled about 
slowly, sometimes diving to the bottom, at other 
times resting on the surface, with one head, per- 
haps, under the water, the other above ; showing 
that the heads breathed independently, a fact easily 
verified by watching the two throats as the)' ex- 
panded and contracted. At the same time, it was 
noticed that the two heads opened their mouths and 
gaped occasionalh'. as if to breathe more air. This 
was the only sign of weakness. It may seem strange 
that any two so completely one should have differed 
in temperament, for they were certainly brought 
up under identically the same treatment ; yet the 
right head, on many occasions, was the more irrita- 
ble and timid, — ready to pick a quarrel with its 
other self, or to dodge at a fly or strange animal, 
while the other head seemed stolid and self-con- 
fident at all times. 

But I had not reached this point in its simple 
history, nor had I satisfied my desire to study all 
its ways, when the little prize met with a serious 
accident. Its aquarium was carefully provided 
with clean, fresh water and a liberal supply of 
water plants. Now, while they were renewing the 
water and supplies, one day, this little curiosity 
was put out on the smooth grass almost within easy 
reach. Suddenly there was a rush and spring, 
and before even the most watchful could interfere, 
a prowling, stray cat had pounced upon the favor- 
ite inmate of the aquarium. Of course it was res- 
cued at once, but it was thought that the ruthless 
cat had killed the pet outright. To their great 
satisfaction, it seemed to be unhurt. There was 
no trace of blood, not even a scratch visible. 

The right head ventured at once to peer out 

i88 9 .J 



cautiously, but the left was too frightened to leave 
its protecting shell for fully half an hour. But 
finding itself in familiar hands the pet was soon 
itself again, and was restored to its aquarium. 

The next morning it walked, swam, and ate as 
it was wont to do, although the left head was not 
hungry, and refused to eat at all, which was not 
uncommon. The next day, also, the left head ate 
nothing, and on the third it drooped. It was 
evidently very weak and sick, yet courageous and 
bound to hold out as long as possible, for, when 
petted, it straightened up resolutely and tried to 
make off with its companion, as it had done for so 
many weeks, to the wonder and delight of all who 
saw it. But in less than an hour it was dead, and 
the left legs also ; leaving its companion apparently 
in great distress, for it was exceedingly uneasy. 
Undoubtedly the living head had some intima- 
tion of its approaching end and restlessly walked 

about as if to escape. But in two hours and a 
half the right head was dead also. The cat's 
claw had pierced the neck of the left head. Care- 
ful examination showed, close to the shell, a small 
but fatal wound in the neck. But for this tragic 
end, it might have lived on through the winter, 
or possibly even longer. 

During its short life, from the 1st of June to the 
middle of September, many people from many 
cities visited it, and enjoyed its queer pranks, its 
quarrels for more room, its tugs-of-war for food, 
its many misunderstandings of itself, its awkward 
gait and wise look. 

Large sums of money were offered for it, but 
this rare pet had so endeared itself to its owners 
that they were not tempted to part company with 
it. Now that it is dead, they keep the body care- 
fully preserved, and feel that its memory deserves 
to be perpetuated. 



^m fIB 

"h „ 

i .1.,-"" • 



By Anna M. Pratt. 

The orchard is a rosy cloud, 

The oak a rosy mist, 
And oh, the gold of the buttercups 

The morning sun has kissed ! 
There are twinkling shadows on the grass 

Of a myriad tiny leaves, 
And a twittering loud from the busy crowd 
That build beneath the eaves. 
77/(7/ sing, happy children, 
The bird and bee are here, 
The May time is a gay time, 
The blossom time o' the rear. 

A message comes across the fields, 

Borne on the balmy air, 
For all the little seeking hands 

There are flowers enough and to spare. 
Hark ! a murmuring in the hive, — 
List ! a carol clear and sweet, — 
While feathered throats the thrilling notes 
A thousand times repeat. 
Then sing, happy children, 
The bird and bee are here, 
The May time is a gay time, 
The blossom time o' the year. 

By Octave Thanet. 

How many years ago was it that the " Land of 
Nod" appeared in St. Nicholas? My volume is 
not at hand (in fact, it has been literally worn out 
in the service) ; but, last spring, I could repeat 
most of the songs by heart. You see we used the 
play for our school exhibition in the little white 
school-house by the cypress brake. And a great 
success it was, too. Some of the thousands of 
St. NICHOLAS readers who have laughed over the 
droll little operetta may like to know how it fared 
far away from stages, costumes, or even a dry- 
goods store. 

Our plantation is on a little river six miles (and 
a swamp) from the railway. The black old mill 
grinds corn, saws lumber, and gins cotton for us, 
because we are a cotton plantation ; and the big 
white store sells all the dresses, hats, and coats for 
the " renters" and the farmers scattered through 
country across the river, — all the groceries, also, 
and the medicines, stoves, meat, and farming 

Whatever else we may need, we must order 
through the mail-rider who comes every day to 
the post-office in the store. 

The Carrolls' house overlooks the devious wil- 
low-shaded river ; but the Planter's house (the 
planter is Mrs. Carroll's partner) is farther back. 

Half-a-mile away is the school-house, where all 
the little white children go to school. In the 
spring, the grassy ways about the school-house are 
speckled with "bluets" and white "spring beau- 
ties, "and countless violets. In the cypress "slash," 
behind the house, tall cypress-trees show a sprink- 
ling of dainty green, fine as fern-fronds, mingling 
with the star-shaped foliage of the tupello gum and 
the beautiful hackberry leaves — all these delicate 
forms are in strange contrast to the huddle of 
"cypress knees" below or the hideous trunks of 
the hackberry. Cow-lilies, yellow as gold, spatter 
the black water, which is like a line of ink drawn 
through roots and " knees." 

When spring comes, school closes. It is time for 
the children to help " make a crop." 

So it was in April that we gave " The Land of 

The school-teacher suggested it — not the regu- 
lar school-teacher. A regular school-teacher would 
have thought it far too much trouble, and, recoiling 

Vol. XVI. — 34. 52 

before the thought of costumes, have substituted 
a "dialogue"; but Ethel, who took the school 
because she happened to be visiting her aunt, Mrs. 
Carroll, knew little about trouble, and proposed 
it hopefully. 

Dora, one of that class who look before they 
leap, glanced over the pages. 

" There appear to be many costumes required," 
she observed without enthusiasm. 

" Well, but, my dear," Mrs. Carroll replied 
quickly, — Mrs. Carroll has that divine quality, 
hope, — "there is pretty, light-colored silesia at 
the store, and we have silver-paper." 

Dora's eyes ran down the dramatis persona:, as 
she answered: " One, two — four xoyz\ personages. 
You can't dress kings and queens in silesia." 

" Oh, yes, you can," said her mother, cheerfully, 
" by lamplight. It will be at night." 

Ethel was delighted. She offered to make the 
sword and armor for the standard-bearer ; but we 
abandoned the standard and Mr. Planter borrowed 
a spear instead, from a " Wheel " society ; a large, 
bright, tin spear that was a comfort to us, as the 
only solidly built article in our paraphernalia, and 
in consequence the only thing which could be 
handled with impunity. 

Our first qualms about costumes soon vanished. 
Mrs. Planter was captured by Mrs. Carroll, who, 
though a gentle creature, sweeps discouragement 
before her like dust before a broom. Dora herself 
felt the contagion. Daily she went up to the school- 
house to drill the young actors. And even the 
humble person who writes this chronicle, and who 
has no gifts in costuming, was moved to offer an 
idea on decoration. She made gold and silver 
lace for the high-born personages of the drama. 
Gold and silver paint and common cotton lace 
were all she needed. Mrs. Planter is a lady of 
wide resources; but none can be named in the 
same breath with Mrs. Carroll. She can copy a 
picture in cloth ; and beyond my praise is the 
manner in which she adapted, and, as it were, 
enchanted, our common hats and gowns and house- 
furnishings. She made wigs of horse-hair dyed 
blonde with curry powder; provided wings for the 
sprites, lovely ethereal wings of tarlatan and wire 
taste ; shimmering, too, because sprinkled, regard- 
less of expense, with diamond-dust ; she turned 




a red piano-cover into the royal robe ; she inked 
bands of cotton judiciously into a life-like simili- 
tude of ermine ; she cut round pieces out of paste- 
board, punched two holes in them, covered them 
with tin-foil, and, behold, dazzling silver buttons ! — 
in fine, there was no end to her ingenuity. 

Of course we had to make all the costumes. 
Shoes were the first difficulty. " Your pages," 
said Dora, " must wear something on their feet ! " 

"What do they usually have?" inquired the 
humble person. 

" Boots," replied Ethel promptly ; " boots with 
red tops and copper toes — or they go barefoot." 

The humble person suggested our own low 
shoes ; but, alas ! the small actors' feet would not 
expand to fit them. 

Ethel's bold idea was that the pages should act 
in stocking feet; shoes might be "simulated," 
she thought, with buckles and bows of ribbon, that 
would pass — by lamplight. 

But Mrs. Carroll was shocked. " I should rather 
make the shoes myself! " cried she. " I believe I 
could, as well as not." 

As good as her word, she cut them out of can- 
ton flannel matching the hose, and slashed them 
medievally with blue and pink. They were a tri- 
umph. And Ethel converted the tin horn from the 
store into a knightly trumpet, by ends of waving 
ribbon and a flaring rim of repousse silver — other- 
wise, tin-foil. She, also, was the architect of the 
helmet, built of pasteboard and tin-foil until it 
glittered from afar, and (except for being a trifle 
large and slipping down over the unfortunate 
child's eyes) was everything that could be reason- 
ably desired. 

The Standard-bearer wore a coat-of-mail over a 
green jerkin. Coats-of-mail are best wrought out 
of sleeveless under-vests, silvered over with close- 
lapping scales of tin-foil (seii<cd on). The effect is 

Where we least expected trouble, it came. The 
six little Sleepy-heads were to wear nightgowns, 
but it appeared that long white nightgowns 
were articles of luxury on the plantation, and not 
all the children had them. Luckily, one kind little 
girl owned many, and lent to her companions, so 
that difficulty was conquered. 

One regular costume onhy did we have on hand, 
and this one we gave to the Dream Prince. It 
was our pride, — a suit of brown velveteen, coat, 
waistcoat, and small-clothes complete, trimmed 
with store gold-braid, — a centennial costume, to be 
sure, but why need one be particular about im- 
prisoning the dramatis persona: in one epoch? 

Neither were we slavish in our following of the 
fashion of the time. The Prince should have 
worn a cocked hat ; not having one, he wore a 

Henry VIII. cap and a paper feather, which really 
did quite as well. 

Ethel had all the responsibility of the cast. 

Not knowing which children could act, parts 
were distributed according to good behavior and 
good looks. The King of the Land of Nod was 
the best boy in school, who lives with his grand- 
father and does a man's work in the cotton-field ; 
the Dream Prince received promotion on account 
of his beautiful dark eyes ; Old Mother Goose 
was so kind to the children ; My Lady Fortune's 
clean, white aprons singled her out ; while both 
the Queen of the Dollies and the Dream Princess 
had always neatly brushed their hair; Jack o' 
Dreams turned out a bright young actor, but was 
appointed solely because of good temper ; the 
Goblins were young Arkansans of French descent, 
whose black eyes and olive skins made them look 
their parts ; the Sand Man was helping his father 
plow, and had a small part, since he could not 
be at rehearsals ; all the Sprites were nice little 
girls who learned their lessons and kept their faces 
clean ; the Standard-bearer was chosen in recog- 
nition of his fortitude when he fell off the tree 
(which he climbed to get Ethel some mistletoe) and 
sprained his ankle ; he carried the noble tin spear 
and wore the shining helmet; as for the Sleepy- 
heads, they were chosen as being just little, chubby, 
and pretty, and the Pages had good looks rather 
than good behavior to thank ; but then, since 
fairy tales began, pages have been mischievous. 

Page Edgar was (in Arkansas phrase) "chilling," 
while Page Sebastian had a chronic cold in the 
head. But chills and colds are both common in the 
Arkansas river bottoms. If one lives in a "balloon 
frame " house, with only one thickness of wood 
between winter and the family, or in a house of 
hewn logs, feebly plastered with mud, he is very 
likely to catch cold by spring ; while we who have 
never had chills, too often ascribe the malaria as 
much to the Arkansas fondness for pork and strong 
coffee three times a day, as to the climate. 

However, be the fault where it may, it is certain 
that last spring there was hardly a day at the 
school-house that two or three of the scholars were 
not laid out on the benches. If one were to ask 
them what was the matter they would answer 
quietly, as though it were quite a matter of course, 
" Jes'chillin'." 

They had probably walked from one to four 
miles that morning, to school ; they would have to 
walk back again, but they never thought of not 
coming. When the chill ceased they would get 
up and go back to their books. " I never saw 
such patient children," Ethel often said. 

Rehearsals were sometimes interrupted by chills, 
but more often by " wash-days " or the crops. 




Some days the school-room looked dismally empty, 
because the girls were home at housekeeping work, 
and the boys were busy on the farm. 

I will not detail all our small disasters. Some- 
how, we persevered, in spite of everything. The 
plantation carpenter built the platform, and laid 
boards across between benches, for additional 
seats. The lamp chimneys were cleaned, and we 
thought of cleaning even the windows, but gave it 
up as being a life-work; besides, as Mrs. Carroll 
truly said, they never would show at night. 

In spite of the carpenter, the platform was too 
small ; but we drilled the Sprites to dance chiefly 
up and down in the same place ; and since the 
wide circles of a wheelbarrow were quite out of the 
question, the Sand Man and the Jack o' Dreams 
carried the Sleepy-heads upon the stage. 

We rigged a calico curtain with two ropes, and 
(if you were careful and did not pull the wrong 
rope and pulled the right one hard enough), it 
worked quite as well as most unprofessional 

The appointed evening came at last. There 
was a great outpouring of all the families of the 
renters and farmers round about. 

Families came together, — father, mother, and 
children, down to the patient Arkansas baby in its 
red flannel gown. They arrived on foot, in wagons, 
in mud-splashed buggies, on horseback and mule- 
back, with saddles or without. They crowded the 
school-room, and rows of black faces were flat- 
tened against the window-panes outside. 

Meanwhile, we were dressing the performers. 
The " Land of Nod" was only the climax of the ex- 
hibition. Speeches and readings were all to be 
heard beforehand. It must be confessed that we 
were in a great hubbub, only one room being avail- 
able for dressing. It was the room where the chil- 
dren hung their hats and coats, the boys on the 
right-hand row of nails, the girls on the left. But 
with screens and curtains we made two dressing- 

Perhaps we should have been more speedy 
"dressers" if we had not needed to do so much 
pinning. It was a tragic interval when the paper 
of pins was lost, and everything came to a dead 
halt! However, every one was dressed before the 
good-natured audience had finished their talk about 
the speaking. 

The procession was imposing. The King of 
the Land of Nod looked truly regal in our piano- 
cover, his black doublet blazing with gold paper 
moons and stars, and gold lace from raisin-boxes ; 
Ethel's laces, at his throat and wrists, and a 
pair of Dora's black silk stockings darkly gleam- 
ing below, Rhine-stone shoe-buckles, one of the 
most elaborate pasteboard crowns ever made, 

bedecked with red paper poppies, encircling his 
beautiful gray horse-hair curls and a brass cur- 
tain-rod scepter in his carefully washed hand. The 
Pages were pretty little fellows, and if, like the 
Marchioness, you "pretended" very hard, their 
doublets and trunk-hose of gray silesia slashed 
with pink and blue looked very like silk. The 
Queen of the Dollies wore a flowered cretonne 
gown richly embroidered with gold paint. Her 
raiment, I believe, started in life as a lounge 
cover. The Dream Princess looked charming in 
an ex-window-curtain. The Sprites, or Fairies, 
were visions of white tarlatan, crimped hair, pow- 
der, and spangled wings. Lady Fortune wore a 
Greek dress. Snowy folds of cheese-cloth draped 
her with classic grace. Gold fillets bound her 
dark hair ; and no one who did not know it would 
ever suspect that the blue Grecian pattern adorn- 
ing the hem of her gown was made of paper. She 
had a wheel-of-fortune fine enough to make a paid 
supernumerary jealous. Altogether, she was an 
object of pride. 

The Jack o' Dreams was in a clown's dress of 
red and yellow. We sent to town for his bells. 
He capered about the stage with as much aban- 
don as if space had no limits, instead of there being 
barely room to spin round. 

As the curtain rose majestically, with only two 
hitches, to the strains of the mice-eaten organ, 
and the procession filed on the stage, there was 
a loud murmur of applause. The overworked 
mothers, who had risen before daylight to get 
scrubbing and cooking out of the way and the 
family into their Sunday best and everybody safely 
packed on the mules, and "the old man" per- 
suaded to come and see "Bud" and " Sis" in their 
" pretty clothes," all smiled at each other with a 
sense of pleasurable excitement. 

The King's grandfather sat in front. It was to 
be the King's last year in school, which seemed 
a great pity to us all, but the grandfather needed 
him and did n't " 'low he needed no more larnin', 
onyhow." We were surprised to see the old man. 
There he sat, however, his gnarled old face aglow in 
spite of himself over the King's magnificence. 
"Fine's a circus, ain't it?" Dora overheard him 
mutter to the mother of the Standard-bearer. 

Dora was at the organ, while Mrs. Planter was 
stage-manager, Ethel was prompter, the humble 
person had the task of keeping the Sleepy-heads 
in good humor, and Mrs. Carroll sat in her good 
clothes among the audience. 

Occasionally her artist's anxiety sent in (by one 
of the children) such messages as : " Tie the small- 
clothes on, don't pin them. I know there is a pin 
sticking into the Jack o' Dreams ! " " You must 
rub off the powder a little, it shows from the front ! " 


" Melancthon Bates can't come, his sister says he 's 
chilling ; you '11 have to get another Sleepy-head. 
I '11 find somebody." " You must pin on the 
shoes — Page Edgar has lost one of his, already." 
And so forth. 

We fared prosperously until we began to carry 
the Sleepy-heads upon the stage. This was 
done by the Jack o' Dreams and the Sand Man. 
Three Sleepy-heads were laid carefully in the 
wrong position, while the audience laughed and 
cheered; then the Jack o' Dreams was observed 
to hold back, clutching at his garments — those 
fatal pins ! 

" Come on ! " whispered Mrs. Planter from the 
right wing. 

" Go on ! " whispered Ethel from the left. 

" I don't guess he can" apologized the Sand 
Man, in an audible aside. 

" Have Miss Ethel pin you up, then," said Mrs. 
Planter. " Make haste ! " 

" Oh, hitch 'em up, Bud, an' 

called an 

impatient listener on the front seats. 

Jack wisely followed this advice, and so got 
within easy reach of Mrs. Planter's arm, being in- 
stantly captured and pinned into shape again. 

" I think I 've pinned through his very skin," 
was Mrs. Planter's calm remark; "but he's a 
plucky boy, and he won't mind." 

He did not mind. He jumped, and leaped, and 
grimaced, to the delight of the audience ; he was 
the dramatic success of the evening. But nothing 
could be prettier than the Sprites' singing and 
dancing, unless it was the little Sleepy-heads' 
sweet little, high voices, and the way they sat up 

so drowsily when they were awaked. That is, all 
the girls sat up, but all the little boys lay still, — 
fast asleep in reality as well as in play. 

In vain did the Sprites sing: "Wake! wake! 
the charm we break ! " In vain did Mrs. Planter 
and Ethel and the humble person call in loud 
whispers which every one else in the house but 
the sleepers could hear: "Johnny! Freddy! 
Bertie ! Wake up ! " They were in much better 
company than the King of the Land of Nod or the 
Queen of the Dollies, and not even the loud ap- 
plause of the kindly audience could bring them 

So their fathers and mothers quietly bundled 
them home to their own little beds. 

Then Mr. Planter made a speech, — wise, and 
kind, and funny, — which pleased everybody; the 
school prizes were announced, and there were so 
many of them that everybody grew more pleased, 
except the babies, who felt that it was high time 
to go home, and said so quite plainly and loudly, 
if not in so many words. By this time the moon 
was up, and the muddy places and fords could 
be seen, and the exhibition was ended. 

Many were the compliments paid Ethel, with 
that natural courtesy that belongs to the very 
humblest Southerners ; but none pleased her so 
much as the few words the King of the Land of 
Nod's grandfather spoke to her in passing, " Wal, 
Miss, that was a mighty good show. I b'lieve in 
boys larnin' to speak. I reckon I kin make out 
without my boy fur a spell nex' year, an' let him 
come to school. He keeps all my cotton ac- 
counts now, — that boy ! " 


By Joel Stacy. 

Learning ? Where 's the use of learning 
Johnny cried, his lesson spurning. 
As for me, I 'd rather run ! " 
So from morn to set of sun, 
Johnny's legs were never still ; 
He could distance Bob and Bill, 
Jim and Tom, and Dick and Peter. 
Not a youth in town was fleeter. 

Grammar, Algebra, and History 
Glimmered in a hazy mystery, 
School terms softly sped away, 
While he practiced day by day, — 
Week by week, and through vacation. 
Then his friends, in desperation, 
Vowed the boy was not for knowledge ; 
So they sent him off to college. 


By M. C. Harrison. 

" There goes your Uncle Harry," exclaimed a 
chorus of voices, as I passed the school play- 
ground ; "he has just come home from Europe, 
and so he ought to be able to tell us all about 
soldiers and drilling." 

" Yes, Uncle Harry," said my nephew Tom, who 
made himself spokesman for the crowd of boys, 
"we want to drill like real soldiers, — 'shoulder 
arms ! ' ' march ! ' and all that." 

"I never was much of a soldier, my boys. 1 
was wounded in one of the battles of our civil war, 
and so my military career was cut short, but I can 
tell you a story my grandfather once told me, of 
a noble soldier whose example of humility and 
bravery you would do well to follow." 

The boys forgot their play in a moment and 
crowded around me, eager for my story : 

"It was on a lovely evening, my grandfather 
used to say, that he was at the little town of Carhaix 
in the west of France. Acompanyof stalwart grena- 
diers was assembled on the parade-ground of the 
village, and the rays of the setting sun gilded their 
polished arms. The long roll of the drum ceased, 
and the roll-call began. Name after name was 
called, and was echoed by its owner. 

" ' La Tour d'Auvergne.' 

" No voice responded to that proud name. 
There was a short silence, and then an old gray- 
headed color-sergeant, raising his cap as if in 
salute, stepped forth from the ranks and solemnly 
answered : 

" ' Dead on the field of honor.' 

"When the company had been dismissed, my 
grandfather sought the veteran and asked if he 
could tell him the story of La Tour d'Auvergne. 

" 'La Tour d'Auvergne? Yes, sir,' he replied, 
'I can tell you all about him. He was born here 
in Carhaix, in 1743, and I can show you his grave 
in yonder little church-yard. His parents are 
buried there, too,' and, as they walked slowly to 
the church-yard, the old man told the story of 
the valorous soldier of France, to honor whose 
memory was his daily duty. 

From boyhood, La Tour d'Auvergne longed 
to be a soldier. He was among the earliest to volun- 
teer when the French revolution began ; after the 
peace of Basle, he fell into the hands of the Eng- 
lish, and for a year was a prisoner in England. 
His name was one of the first enrolled on the glo- 
rious list of the grenadiers of France, when Napo- 
leon's bugle-notes sounded. He seldom took part 
in a battle without distinguishing himself by some 
heroic action, for which honors were pressed upon 
him. La Tour d'Auvergne gratefully but firmly 
refused all honors, declaring his nn worthiness of 
them. He accepted only one favor from his be- 
loved Napoleon. The Senate had offered La Tour 
d'Auvergne a seat in the legislative body, which he 
declined, saying, "Where shall I serve the Republic 
to greater purpose than in the army ? " He then 
rejoined his company of grenadiers, which had be- 
come famous under his leadership, with the army 
of the Rhine, and there he received a letter from 




the Minister of War informing him that Napoleon within two hours' march of the place where he then 
had created him " First Grenadier of the Republic" was; thought and action were simultaneous with 
and had awarded him "a sword of honor." He La Tour d'Auvergne, and before the enemy had 


refused the title, but accepted the sword, which, 
however, he w-as never willing to carry into battle. 
When La Tour d'Auvergne was about forty years 
of age, an event occurred which increased his rep- 
utation as a soldier who knew not fear. He was 
sent on important business, so the story goes, to 
a region far distant from the main body of the 
army, and he thought it prudent to examine his 
situation in the event of a surprise from the enemy. 
While thus engaged, intelligence reached him of 
the proximity of a regiment of Austrians pushing 
on to besiege a fort which commanded a narrow 
pass, the possession of which by the enemy would 
be very disastrous to the French troops. The 
pass was ten miles away, and the Austrians were 

commenced the ascent of the mountain, he had 
reached the fort. To his dismay he found it de- 
serted ! 

Thirty excellent muskets and a large supply 
of ammunition had been left behind by the fugi- 
tives. The lookout in his haste had even left his 
telescope on the watch-tower : and by the aid of 
this, La Tour d'Auvergne spied the enemy still 
far distant. A few hours' detention of the enemy 
would be invaluable to Napoleon. The pass was 
steep and narrow. The Austrians could enter it 
only in double file, and while they were ascending 
the pass in this order the fire of even a single 
musket from the fort would be exceedingly 
effective. These thoughts flashed like lightning 



through D'Auvergne's mind, and he descended 
from the watch-tower with the resolve to attempt 
the defense of the pass, though alone against a 

Being exhausted, he first took a hasty luncheon ; 
then, barricading the main entrance with all the 
lumber in the fort, he loaded every gun and placed 
the ammunition conveniently near. It was dark 
before his preparations were completed, and there 
was nothing left for him to do but calmly to await 
the approach of the Austrians. About midnight 
he heard the tramp of many feet. In an instant 
his hand grasped a musket, and when the footfalls 
came so near that he felt certain the Austrians had 
entered the pass, he discharged the contents of 
two guns into the darkness to let them know they 

mander summoned the garrison to surrender. La 
Tour d'Auvergne received the flag of truce. 

" Report to your commander," he said, in reply 
to the messenger, "that the garrison will defend 
the pass to the last extremity. " 

The Austrians hesitated no longer, but at once 
hauled a gun into the pass, and opened fire on 
the fort. The only situation available for the piece 
was directly in front of the tower, within easy 
musket-range. As soon as the gun was placed in 
position, La Tour d'Auvergne poured so destruc- 
tive a fire upon the gunners that the enemy were 
compelled to withdraw after the second discharge, 
with a loss of five men. 

The Austrians were brave men, and a second 
time boldly followed their leaders up the defile 


were expected. The shots brought no return fire 
from the enemy, and from the quick, short com- 
mands of the officers, he decided that the ranks 
of the invaders were thrown into confusion by his 
ruse. He heard nothing more of them that night. 
At sunrise the next morning the Austrian com- 

but so rapid and accurate was La Tour d'Au- 
vergne's fire, that fifteen men fell in the pass, and 
the whole body retreated to the foot of the defile. 
A third assault resulted in further loss to the Aus- 
trians, and again they withdrew. By sunset they 
had lost forty-five men, and at dark the Austrian 

53 6 



commander sent a second demand for surrender. leaving a broad space for the retiring garrison from 

To La Tour d'Auvergne it seemed as if that one the fort. All was so quiet within the walls of the 

day in the tower would never end. Soul and body fort, and the huge door remained so obstinately 

had almost failed. But what were pain and fatigue closed, that the Austrians were becoming impa- 

to him if he could but accomplish his aim? A tient; but at last the heavy door swung slowly 

• MHSrafo 

-yM^mm^i- n 

delay of 
hours would, 
he knew, give 
ample time for 
the execution of the 
important maneuver 
which the commander of the 
French army had planned. These precious 
hours, and more, he would gain if he could 
hold out against the Austrians until the next 
day ; so after much apparent hesitation he agreed 
to deliver over the fort at sunrise the following 
morning on condition that the garrison was al- 
lowed to march out with its arms, and to retire 
unmolested to the French army. These terms open, and La Tour d'Auvergne appeared, and, 
were gladly accepted. staggering under his load of thirty muskets, slowly 

At sunrise the next morning the Austrian troops passed down between the lines of troops. Not a 
were drawn up in line on either side of the pass, soul followed him from the fort. 


i8S 9 .j 



Surprised and indignant at this apparent con- 
tempt from the conquered foe, the Austrian colonel 
turned to the grenadier and demanded why the 
garrison did not appear. 

'"I am the garrison, Colonel," said La Tour 

" What ! " exclaimed the Colonel, " do you mean 
to tell me that you have held that tower single- 
handed against my whole regiment ? " 

"I have had that honor, Colonel." 

" What possessed you to make such an at- 
tempt, grenadier ? " 

" The honor of France was at stake." 

With undisguised admiration the Colonel gazed 
at the hero for some time in silence, then raising 
his hat he exclaimed : 

"Grenadier, I salute you. You have proved 
yourself the bravest of the brave." 

LInder a flag of truce, La Tour d'Auvergne re- 
turned with the honors of a conqueror to his army, 
the trophies of his valor borne before him. 

The Austrian colonel sent a dispatch, written 
with his own hand, to the French commander, 
giving a full account of La Tour d'Auvergne's 
heroic exploit. 

Napoleon would have conferred high rank on 
La Tour d'Auvergne for his acts of patriotism and 
bravery, but he steadily refused all honors. The 
title of " First Grenadier of France," however, be- 
stowed on him by special order of the Emperor, 
was accepted by friends and foes alike. 

La Tour d'Auvergne fell at the battle of Ober- 
hausen, near Neuberg, in Bavaria, June 27, 1800. 
The honors he so resolutely refused while living 
were bestowed upon him tenfold after death. A 
shaft bearing the record of his heroic deeds was 
erected on the spot where he fell ; in his native 
village a monument was consecrated to his memory; 
and the simple, touching, memorial ceremony, 
which was witnessed at the roll-call of his regi- 
ment, was instituted, and it was kept up for nearly 
fifteen years. 

"Now, boys," said I, when I had finished the 
story which my grandfather had told me, "you 
have heard one of the many brave exploits of this 
French grenadier. Your books will tell you others 
as interesting, and convince you that La Tour 
d'Auvergne was indeed a soldier worth telling 


By N. P. Babcock. 

That baby 's a puzzle to me, 
With his "queer little snubity nose" 
His clothes are put on, I can see, 
As thickly as leaves on a rose ; 

They don't seem to fit 

The least little bit, 
Yet he has such an air of repose ! 

Oh ! yes, you 're a puzzle to me, 
You solemn-eyed, infantile king ; 
A bishop might climb up a tree 
And you would n't say anything, 

Though he sat on a bough 

And whistled till now, 
The Flowers that Bloom in the Sprint 

They turn him around, upside down, 
And dandle him high in the air ; 
He 's the loveliest baby in town, 
The sweetest, in fact, anywhere. 
They say "Baby 's King," 
And then shake the poor thing ; 
It 's a wonder to me how they dare. 

And yet you will smile at a wink. 

Or chuckle aloud at a sneeze, 

Though your life is made up, I should think, 

Of things more amusing than these; 

As when, half the night long, 

Your Mamma sings a song 
But allows you to sound the high Cs. 

Of what earthly use to be king 
When all of your subjects are mad, 
And imagine a wild Highland fling 
Can alone make your majesty glad — 

Or fancy a poke 

In the chin is a joke 
Your highness delights in when sad? 

Perhaps in the far Baby-land, 
The joking is finer than here. 
Perhaps we can't quite understand 
The pre-mundane funny idea. 
Perhaps if we knew 
What most amused you, 
We 'd feel very foolish and queer. 


By Geo. A. Martin. 


There were four of us in the party, and we had 
built our sylvan camp upon the shore of Tupper's 
Lake in the Adirondack's. Three of us were en- 
joying a brief vacation from the turmoil of busi- 
ness in New York City. The fourth, Richard 
Dryver, familiarly known as " Dick," was a skillful 
woodsman, learned in all the lore of forest, lake, 
and mountain. He was born in a log-cabin, and 
spent his early boyhood amid the woods and waters 
of the great northern wilderness. He afterward 

lived with an uncle in one of the thriving villages 
of Central New York, where he learned the car- 
penter's trade, and ultimately became a partner in 
the business. But the love of forest life remained 
strong within him, and so it was that for several 
successive seasons we had regarded ourselves as 
fortunate to have him with us in the Adiron- 
dacks; not as hired guide, but as friend and com- 

It was a summer evening. We sat in camp, while 




the sun threw a bright gleam across the lake and 
then sank behind the forest-clad mountain, leaving 
the western sky all aglow. We were talking over 
the events of the day, one of which was the dis- 
covery of the tracks of a full-grown bear, and sev- 
eral broken twigs among the branches of a wild 
black cherry tree, which showed that Bruin had 
been feeding upon the cherries. Dick, however, 
had pronounced the tracks to be a " cold trail," 
which meant that several days must have elapsed 
since the bear's visit. And then, after a pause, in 
which he seemed to be recalling some incident 
almost forgotten, he added : " Bears are not as 
plenty as they were when I caught Cuff." 

" Who was Cuff? " we asked. 

" Oh, he was a black bear that I captured when 
he was a baby, and brought up by hand. It 
happened in this way : I was going through the 
woods with my dog one afternoon just about this 
time of year. I heard the dog barking a little way 
ahead, and suspected by the racket he was making 
that he had stirred up a bear. The dog was a 
little fellow, half bull-terrier, active and plucky. 
It did n't take many minutes to reach the spot 
where he was barking, and, sure enough, there 
was an old bear with a cub. The path led along 
the foot of a rather steep slope. The old bear was 
up on the top of the bank down which the cub 
had tumbled and rolled, and the dog attacked him 
just as I came in sight. The old bear sat up there 
with her fore paws hanging over the edge of the 
bank, and her great red mouth wide open, growl- 
ing and snarling. I wondered why she did n't 
come down and take care of her cub. But I did n't 
stop to ask her. I raised my rifle, took aim, and 
fired, and the ball finished her at once. I climbed 
up the bank, and then saw why the old bear had 
stayed there. She had another cub with her. As 
I started along the edge of the bank toward them 
the little cub ran. The brush was rather thick, 
but I managed to keep up with the cub. When 
I was close upon him the little brute scrambled up a 
young spruce-tree. The branches were so thick 
that I could not get through them to follow the 
cub until I had cut some away with the hatchet I 
always carry in my belt. Then I shinned up, 
caught him by the scruff of the neck, and brought 
him down. The little savage squirmed and squealed, 
but I held him with his back toward me until I 
could peel some strips of basswood bark and tie 
his legs. The other cub was so badly bitten by 
the dog that I killed him, out of mercy. Then I 
skinned the old bear and started for home with the 
hide and the cub." 

" How far had you to go? " asked one of the 

" It was about thirty miles home, but I left the 

bear-skin with a friend who had a shanty about ten 
miles from where I killed the old bear and caught 
the cub. I got home the next day, and put the 
cub into an empty pig-pen, roofed over so that he 
could n't climb out. We fed him milk and such 
food as we ate ourselves. My boy Charlie and the 
cub soon became great friends. Charlie would get 
into the pen with him at first, but in a little while 
the cub was so tame we let him out a good part of 
the time, only shutting him into his pen at night. 
He learned everything. But the greatest fun the 
boy had with the cub was to stand him up in a 
chair, so as to bring him on a level, and then have 
a sparring bout. After a little, the boy had to fight 
in earnest to hold his own, for at intervals the cub 
would give him a cuff that set him spinning. That 's 
the way the cub got his name." 

" How long did you keep the cub?" we asked. 

"About a year. The summer after I caught 
him, he had grown to be quite a young bear, and 
was as tame as a kitten. He and the boy were 
steady chums, going all over the place together, 
and indulging in all sorts of tricks. The cub devel- 
oped an uncommon talent for getting into scrapes. 
One Sunday, while I was off in the woods, the folks 



all went to meeting. They first shut up Cuff in 
his pen, but they forgot to fasten it. The door 
slid up and down, and the cub managed to get his 
paw and then his nose under it, and raised it so that 
he got out. The day was warm, and the folks had 
left one of the kitchen windows open. Cuff climbed 




in, and then the mischief began. The cellar-door hard, that I bought a collar and chain and fastened 
was unfastened, and he went down to see what he Cuff to a stake in the orchard. We built him a corn- 
could find. First he climbed up to a swing-shelf fortable little house to sleep in, and he was fed regu- 
larly ; but he seemed 
lonesome and unhappy 
during the hours when 
Charlie was at school. 
Just as soon as school 
was out, Charlie would 
make straight for the 
orchard, hoping to have 
a great frolic with Cuff. 
But one afternoon, when 
he went there — Cuff 
was gone ! The ring 
of the chain had worn 
his leather collar so 
thin that he had broken 
it by pulling. Charlie 
followed the trail across 
a meadow and into a 
piece of woods beyond ; 
there he lost it. The 
next morning I went 
there, but the cub had 
probably traveled all 
night, and I gave up 


the search. 
where the milk was kept, and managed to tip a pan " Was that the last of him ? " 
of it all over himself. Then he went sniffing round " Not quite. For the next year I was up in the 
till he found a barrel of molasses. You know a 
bear has a great fondness for sweet things, and he 
licked around the head of the barrel, and mumbled 
away at the spigot until it came open, and the 
molasses flowed in a full stream. Cuff drank in 
the flowing sweetness until he could hold no more. 
Then he lay down and rolled in it. Soon after 
he began to feel unhappy, and he started up the 
stairs with molasses dripping from his shaggy 
hide at every step. It was n't long before the 
folks came home from meeting. The first thing 
they noticed was the open cellar-door, and the 
track of molasses leading from it through the 
hall to the girls' room. The girls hurried to their 
room, and there on the clean white bedspread 
was Cuff, lying on his back, with a big swarm 
of flies buzzing around him. Maria — one of 
my daughters — ran out and picked up a broom 
and vigorously belabored poor Cuff over his head 
and ears. He tumbled from the bed and ran 
out of the house. They got him into his pen, 
shut and fastened the door, and kept him there 
till I came home." 

" What did you do with him ? " 

" Oh, Mother and the girls were so indignant 
over the damage he had done that they wanted me 


to shoot him or sell him. But Charlie begged so at every step." 



old place for a few weeks. 

Early one morning as I 

awoke, there stood a 

young bear a little way 

from the open side of my 

little bough house. I 

jumped up mighty quick, 

but, just as I reached for 

my gun, the bear sat 

straight up and held out 

his paws just as Cuff used 

to when he was sparring 

with Charlie. I called out 

'Cuff!' and he came 

straight up to me, acting 

as if glad to see his old 

master again. I patted 

his head and talked to 

him. Then he followed 

me down to the lake and 

sat watching me while I 

fished. I gave him part of 

the fish and he went away. 

I stayed there several days after that, and he came 

every morning for his breakfast and a little frolic. 

I would have tried to get him home with me, only 

the wife and girls had never forgiven him. So the 



last morning, I gave him a good breakfast, and 
while he was eating it, leaving him there, I packed 
up my traps and started, and never heard or saw 
anything more of the little fellow." 


By Gertrude Van R. Wickham. 



Turk was an army dog, who knew the mean- 
ing of drum-taps and bugle-calls as well as any 

His military education was acquired in a garri- 
son, where he lived for nearly four years, and 
where, being an intelligent, observant animal, he 
learned many details of martial law and disci- 
pline, and, soldier-like, always wished to see them 

Visitors to Governor's Island in 1880, and for 

three years thereafter, will recall the huge, silent 
mastiff that escorted them from the wharf to the 
parade-ground ; for Turk seemed to consider him- 
self a standing Committee of Reception. 

He was, however, very undemonstrative, and 
quite indifferent to the word or smile of any one 
save General Hancock, and the Superintendent of 
the Island, William Kirchelt. But his devotion to 
these two made up for any lack of interest toward 

Turk was born in the spring of 1878, and was 
of pure, English mastiff breed, his progenitors 
having been imported by the Hon. John Jay, 




formerly minister to Austria. When about two 
years of age, he was sent for a time to General 
Hancock by General W. F. Smith, who had owned 
the dog from puppyhood, and to whom he was 
returned after General Hancock's death'. 

While at Governor's Island, Turk was greatly 
admired and petted ; for, though reserved, he was 
very amiable, and never began a quarrel. But if 
a dog, visiting the Island, attempted any domi- 
neering, Turk soon showed the canine stranger 
that lie was the dog of the garrison, and could 
easily whip ill-mannered intruders. 

His attitude toward animals smaller than himself 
was one of gentle indifference. Little dogs might 
take liberties with him that larger ones dared not 
attempt. If the little fellows became too familiar 
or troublesome, he would gently pick one up with 
his teeth and shake it, not enough to hurt it but 
just enough to frighten it into running away when 

William Kirchelt had the entire charge of him. 
and Turk always accompanied him when he made 
his rounds as Superintendent of. the Island. At 
such times the dog w'ould notice no one they met ' 

except the commandant ; but at the first glimpse 
of General Hancock, Turk would wag his tail vigor- 
ously, bark, and in other ways express his delight. 

When the General wished to see William, he 
usually advised the orderly sent in quest of him, 
to look for Turk, as wherever the dog was, there 
William would be ; and the General used to call the 
dog a " tell-tale," for when William slipped over to 
New York without leave, everybody would know it 
through Turk, who would lie on the wharf during 
William's absence, gazing intently out over the 
water, toward the city. 

He very much disliked to have the General or 
William leave the Island, and if they went in a 
rowboat he would swim after them, and insist upon 
being taken in. Once he nearly lost his life by 
following a steamboat which was conveying the 
General and William to the city on their way to 
take part in the Yorktown celebration in 1881. 
At first, every one who witnessed the scene 
thought that the dog would soon give up the 
attempt ; but on and on he swam, until a boat had 
to put out from the Island to drive him back. He 
was nearly exhausted when he landed, and but for 



this interference of the people on shore would 
have kept on so long as he could swim. 

When his master and keeper returned from 
Yorktown, and were nearing the Island, General 
Hancock exclaimed : 

" Look, William ! There is Turk watching for 
us ! Won't he be glad to see us ! " 

In a garrison, after what is termed the "Retreat" 
is sounded, no one is allowed to pass in or out 
without the pass-word. William's quarters were 
on the line of the sentinel's beat. Turk never 
seemed to notice any passer-by particularly, until 
Retreat, but after that he would permit no one to 
pass except the sentry. 

One cold, rainy night, the sentinel on duty car- 
ried his rifle at " secure arms," his overcoat cape 
nearly covering it. As he passed Turk the dog 
made a charge upon him. The soldier, frightened 
and perplexed at this sudden and unexpected hos- 
tility, remained motionless. 
William heard the noise, 
and, going to the door, took 
in the situation at once. 

" Put your gun on your 
shoulder and walk on," he 
called out. When the sentry 
did so. Turk immediately lay 
down, looking very foolish, 
and plainly showing that he 
realized his mistake and was 
mortified by it. 

After General Hancock 
died, William Kirchelt's com- 
pany was ordered to Califor- 
nia, and General Smith took 
the dog again. For three 
summers, Turk was at Bar 
Harbor, where he made him- 
self indispensable, not only 
as a watch-dog but as a pro- 
tection to the ladies of the 
family in their long walks 
and rambles. They never 
were afraid of tramps when 
Turk was with them. 

At home, strangers, espe- 
cially doubtful-looking ones, 

were escorted about the premises with stately 
watchfulness, never being interfered with unless 
they meddled with something, when he instantly 
would show disapprobation. A slight hint from 
the huge dog was all that was ever required to 
keep even the most unscrupulous within the strict 
line of honesty. 

He was left nearly alone one summer, and upon 
General Smith's return had disappeared. No trace 
of him has ever been discovered. 


All boys who love the water, and especially 
those who think that they would like to be sailors, 
will be interested in " Bruce," once the favorite 
dog of Admiral David D. Porter, of our Navy. 

Dogs have been favorites with the Admiral all 
his life, and within the last twenty years, or since 
making Washington his headquarters, he has 
owned no less than twenty-two ! 

But Bruce, early in his career, earned the high- 
est place in his master's regard by one of those 
feats of sagacity which seem to prove that animals 
sometimes reason, and that, too, often more wisely 
than their recognized mental superiors. 

Admiral Porter had a little grandson, who lived 
near a deep and rapid water-course about twenty- 
five feet wide. The stream was crossed by a nar- 
row plank. One day, the little fellow — who was 

but three years of age — attempted the perilous 
crossing alone. There was no one near to warn 
him of danger or prevent him but the dog. Realiz- 
ing the child's peril, Bruce ran to him, and, catch- 
ing hold of his dress, tried to pull him back. The 
youngster was determined to have his own way, 
and vigorously resented the dog's interference by 
beating poor Bruce in the face, with a big stick 
he carried, until the dog was forced by pain to 
relinquish his hold. 




The faithful animal then jumped into the water, 
and swam slowly across the stream, below the 
plank, evidently with the intention of saving the 
child, should he happen to fall in. 

When they were both safely across, and Bruce 
had shaken the water from his shaggy coat, he 
artfully induced the little fellow to get on his back 
for a ride, a treat he knew the youngster much 
enjoyed and for which he was always ready. 

The moment the dog felt the child's arms around 
his neck, and the little feet digging into his sides, 
he trotted back across the plank, and homeward, 
never stopping until his young charge was safely 
beyond any temptation of repeating his dangerous 

Bruce was a famous watch-dog, and guarded the 
Admiral's premises in Washington more effect- 
ively than any night-watchman, for it would have 
taken more courage to confront him than to encoun- 
ter any average watchman. 
He weighed one hundred 
and seventy-five pounds, 
and was very large around 
the body. His hair was 
long, shaggy, and of a dark 
drab color, except upon his 
neck, breast, and feet, where 
it was pure white ; and 
he was noted among those 
who knew him for his 
gentle, expressive eyes. 

Poor Bruce met his death 
in rather an ignominious 
way. Despite his bravery 
and sagacity, he possessed 
a weakness that in the end 
cost him his life. He would 
overeat ! We can best try 
to excuse him for this by 
the supposition that living 
in Washington, a city so 
given to feasting and good 
living, had its effect on a 
dog prone to observation 
and emulation. 

One day he gained ac- 
cess to a tub which, from a 
dog's standpoint, contained 
something so exceedingly 
good, that he ate the entire 
contents. Perhaps some 

other dog stood by, hoping to share the meal, 
or awaiting a possible surplus — a state of affairs 
that always serves to lend added relish to a 
canine feast. A rush of blood to the head, fol- 
lowing close upon this foolish overindulgence, un- 
fortunately proved fatal. 


"ROGER" is a large Irish setter, of wide and 
varied information, and great dignity of character. 

He has a handsome set of fringes to his paws, a 
fine, glossy coat, and eyes that ask many questions, 
and make many requests. It is nearly impossible 
for his mistress to refuse him anything, so that he 
was in danger of being quite spoiled, or rather he 
would have been, if less sensible. 

Once, when he lay stretched out on a soft rug 
before the library fire, the Rev. J. G. Wood, who 
understands dog-life as well as anybody in the 
world, asked Miss Jewett, reproachfully, whether 
Roger ever had to do anything he did n't like; 
and for some time afterward she doubted whether 
she had given proper attention to the dog's moral 
education ! 

Roger spends his winters in Boston, where luckily 

he has a very large garden on the shore of the 
Charles River, in which to run about. But he much 
prefers a long walk, and always follows his mistress 
very carefully and politely. 

When they go into the business or manufactur- 
ing part of the city, it is sometimes touching to see 



sad faces light up as he goes by with tail wagging, 
and to notice how many tired hands reach out to 
pat him. At such times, Miss Jewett will often 
forget her errand in stopping to talk with others 
about him. 

But any account of the dog would be incom- 
plete without a word about his best friend, Patrick 
Lynch. All Roger's truest loyalty and affection 
show themselves at the sound of Patrick's step, 
for it means — all outdoors, and the market, and 
long scurries about town, and splashes in the frog- 

All day Roger is expecting some sort of surprise 
or pleasure from this most congenial of friends ; 
but every evening he condescends to spend quietly 
with the rest of the family, and comes tick-toeing 
along the hall floor and upstairs to the library, as 
if he were well aware that his presence confers 
a pleasure. Alas ! he sometimes meets bonnets 
outward bound, and this is a cause of much 
disappointment when he finds, as often happens, 
that he must stay at home. 

But if he be invited to come, what barking and 
whining in many keys ! What dashing along the 
snowy streets ! — what treeing of unlucky pussies, 

and scattering of wayfarers terrified by his size and 
apparent fierceness. 

But the best place to see this dog is by the sea- 
shore in the summer, where he rims about with 
his beautiful red coat shining like copper in the 
sunshine. He is then always begging somebody 
for a walk, or barking even at the top of an in- 
offensive ledge for the sake of being occupied in 
some way. Mrs. James T. Fields is at such times 
his best friend, for she oftenest invites him to walk 
along the beach and chase sandpipers. Strange to 
say, his interest in this pursuit never fails, though 
the sandpipers always fly seaward, and so disappoint 
their eager hunter. 

We who have thus been introduced to Roger and 
become, as it were, almost intimate with him, will 
regret that he must some day grow old and sedate. 
Yet in that respect we shall always have the advan- 
tage of his closest friends, for with us he will have 
perpetual youth. In our thoughts he ever will be 
scurrying through the streets of Boston, stopping 
only to receive with majestic complaisance the pet- 
ting of strange hands ; or at the sea-shore, exercis- 
ing his scale of dog-notes, or scattering the timid 
sandpipers — a joke of which he seems never to tire. 

fti: :■'/ 

i^\«f jl *:Tiir,ilii! 

i ■ ;'#■ '■-'■•' ■'=+ r ,*, 
life lifeW * * ;,„!b ;-. 


Vol. XVI. — 35. 

By Palmer Cox. 



/^Amo? Cox 

One night, as spring began to show 
In buds above and blades below, 
The Brownies reached a garden square 
That seemed in need of proper care. 
Said one, " Neglected ground like this 

Must argue some one most remiss, 

Or beds and paths would here be found 

Instead of rubbish scattered 'round. 

Old staves, and boots, and woolen strings. 

With bottles, bones, and wire springs, 




Are quite unsightly things to see 
Where tender plants should sprouting be. 
The crows are cawing on the limb, 
The swallows o'er the meadows skim ; 
I heard the robin's merry note 
This evening through the valley float, 
While bluebirds flew around in quest 
Of hollow stumps fit for a nest. 
This work must be progressing soon, 
If blossoms are to smile in June." 
A second said, " Let all give heed : 
On me depend to find the seed. 
And neither village shop I '11 raid, 
Nor city store of larger trade ; 
For, thanks to my foreseeing mind, 
To merchants' goods we 're not confined. 
Last autumn, when the leaves grew sere 
And birds sought regions less severe, 
One night through gardens fair I sped, 
And gathered seeds from every bed; 
Then placed them in a hollow tree, 
Where still they rest. So trust to me 
To bring supplies, while you prepare 
The mellow garden-soil with care." 
Another cried, " While some one goes 
To find the shovels, rakes, and hoes, 
That in the sheds are stowed away, 
We '11 use this plow as best we may. 
Our arms, united at the chain, 
Will not be exercised in vain, 
But, as though colts were in the trace, 

We '11 make it 
dance around the 

I know how deep 
the point should 


|| And how the sods 
to overthrow. 
So not a patch 
"■■""* of ground the size 

Of this old cap, when flat it lies, 
But shall attentive care receive, 
And be improved before we leave." 

Then some to guide the plow began, 
Others the walks and beds to plan. 
And soon they gazed with anxious eyes 
For those who ran for seed-supplies. 
But, when they came, one had his say, 
And thus explained the long delay : 
" A woodchuck in the tree had made 
His bed just where the seeds were laid. 
We wasted half an hour at least 
In striving to dislodge the beast ; 
Until at length he turned around, 

Then, quick as thought, without a sound, 
And ere he had his bearings got, 
The rogue was half across the lot." 

Then seed was sown in various styles, 
In circles, squares, and single files ; 

1 1.' i 

:ik^ ; i; 


While here and there, in central parts, 
They fashioned diamonds, stars, and hearts, 
Some using rake, some plying hoe, 
Some making holes where seed should go ; 
While some laid garden tools aside 

And to the soil their hands applied. 
To stakes and racks more were assigned, 
That climbing vines support might find. 
Cried one, " Here, side by side, will stand 
The fairest flowers in the land, — 



The stately hollyhock will tower 
O'er many a sweet and modest flower. 
Here, royal plants, all weighted down 
With purple robe or golden crown. 
Away their pomp and pride will fling 
And to their nearest neighbor cling. 
The thrifty bees for miles around 

Ere long will seek this 
plot of ground, 

And be surprised to 
find each morn 

New blossoms do each 
bed adorn. 

And in their own pe- 
culiar screed 

Will bless the hands 
that sowed the 

But morning broke (as 
break it will 

Though one 's awake or sleeping still), 
And then the seeds on every side 
The hurried Brownies scattered wide. 
Along the road and through the lane 
They pattered on the ground like rain, 

Where Brownies, as away they flew, 
Both right and left full handfuls threw, 
And children often halted there 
To pick the blossoms, sweet and fair, 

That sprung like daisies from the mead 
Where fleeing Brownies flung the seed. 

i£oS oSoSf>o . c So«c 'd' 


SOHq 4 SfFfWQ^^ 

Words by Mary J. Jacques. 
A , Gioeoso 


Music by T. C. H. 

. Jin-gle, jin - gle, Tarn -bour- ine, Rub and thump the bells be - tween 

poco rit. et dim. 

„a tempo. 


Or the cream - y flour we deal, Read - y for the bak - 


Rattle-tattle, Castanet, 

All the clatter that we get 

Comes through such a noiseless net 

That the elves must listen, 
While we magic circles make, 
With a rhythmic rock and shake, 
Dreaming of a birthday cake, 

Fit to make eyes glisten. 


Tint-ta, tin-ta, Mandolin, 
Ring the scalloped baking-tin, 
Bring the doughty rolling-pin, 

Whirl away the " Dover " ! 
Now we've piled it mountains high, 
Here 's for bread and buns and pie, 
Here 's the wheat, the corn, the rye, 

So, the sifting 's over. 


By Margaret Eytinge. 

Said little brown Bee to big brown Bee : 
" Oh ! hurry here and see, and see, 
The loveliest rose — the loveliest rose 
That in the garden grows, grows, grows. 
Hum-um-um — hum-um-um," 
Said little brown Bee to big brown Bee. 

Said little brown Bee to big brown Bee: 
" Much honey must be here, and we 
Should beg a portion while we may, 
For soon more bees will come this way. 
Hum-um-um — hum-um-um," 
Said little brown Bee to big brown Bee. 

Said big brown Bee to little brown Bee : 
" The rose is not for me, for me, 
Though she is lovelier by far 
Than many other flowers are. 
Hum-um-um — hum-um-um," 
Said big brown Bee to little brown Bee. 

Said big brown Bee to little brown Bee: 
" No honey-cup has she, has she, 
But many cups, all brimming over, 
Has yonder little purple clover, 
And that 's the flower for me, for me. 
Hum-um-um — hum-um-um," 
Said big brown Bee to little brown Bee. 




.7 cA ".%ara\ 


WALK, in, Lady May, and many welcomes to your 
sweet ladyship ! Lady May, allow me to present 
my children of St. Nicholas ! 

Ah ! your ladyship has had the pleasure of meet- 
ing them before ? Then all is well. 

And now, your ladyship, my friend Lucy E. Til- 
ley shall tell you and the children a true story : 


The buds in the tree's heart safely were folded away, 
Awaiting in dreamy quiet the coming of May, 

When one little bud roused gently and pondered 
awhile, — 
" It 's dark, and no one would see me," it said with a 

" If I before all the others could bloom first in May, 
And so be the only blossom, if but for a day, 

How the world would welcome my coming, — the first 

little flower, — 
'T will surely be worth the trouble, if but for an hour." 

Close to the light it crept softly, and waited till Spring, 
With her magic fingers, the door wide open should fling. 

Spring came, the bud slipped out softly and opened 

its eyes 
To catch the first loving welcome; but saw with 


That swift through the open doorway, lo, others had 

For thousands of little white blossoms had thought to 

be " First." 

SOME time ago, a little Illinois girl named Rose, 
sent so strange a story of bird sagacity to this Pul- 
pit, that the Little School-ma'am kindly wrote to 
the lady mentioned by Rose to inquire if the little 
girl had been rightly informed. In due time the 

reply came, verifying the story in every particular, 
save that the lady " thought it was a Phcebe bird, 
but could not be sure." 

So you shall hear it now, word for word : 

a very knowing phcebe bird. 

Rockford, Illinois. 

Dear Jack-ix-the-Pulpit : Having noticed many 
curious stories of animals and birds in your columns, I 
will now write and tell you what a little Phoebe bird did. 

It built its nest on a ledge over the door of a house in 
this neighborhood. When the little birds were still quite 
small, the lady of the house was standing on the porch, 
and seeing one of them fall to the ground, she picked it 
up and put it back into the nest. A few days later she 
saw one of the little birds fall again ; but this time it fell 
only about ten or eleven inches, where it stopped and 
hung in the air. The lady climbed up to the nest, and 
found that every one of the baby birds had a horse-hair 
tied around its leg and then fastened to the nest. Was 
this the mother bird's way of keeping them safe at home 
while she was gone ? 

I enjoy reading the St. Nicholas very much, espe- 
cially the " Pulpit" and "Letter-box." 

Your interested reader, Rose R. 


Dear Friend Jack : I have lately been reading of 
an incident which, with your permission, I 'd like to 
send to your crowd of hearers, many of whom, I dare 
say, are amateur photographers who practice with their 
own cameras and delight themselves and their friends 
with many a startling picture. 

Well, sixty-four years ago, in 1S25, M. Dumas, the 
French writer, was lecturing in the Theater of Sorhonne 
on chemistry. At the close of his lecture, a lady came 
up to him, and said : " M. Dumas, as a man of science, I 
have a question of no small moment to me to ask you. 
I am the wife of Daguerre, the painter. For some time 
he has let the idea seize upon him that he can fix the 
image of the camera. Do you think it possible? He 
is always at the thought ; he can't sleep at night for it. 
I am afraid he is out of his mind. Do you, as a man 
of science, think it can ever be done, or is he mad ? " 
"In the present state of knowledge," said Dumas, "it 
can not be done ; but I can not say it will always remain 
impossible, nor set the man down as mad who seeks to 
do it." 

Twelve years afterward, Daguerre worked out his 
idea, and soon became known far and wide as the dis- 
coverer of the daguerreotype process. To-day he stands 
alone as the father of modern photography. 

Yours truly, Joel S . 

south american indians. 

Para, Brazil. 
Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: I would like to tell you 
about some tribes of South American Indians, of whom, 
until very lately, nothing, or almost nothing, has been 
known. These tribes live on the Xingu and Araguaya 
rivers, parts of which have only lately been explored, and 
consequently the discovery of these tribes is quite recent. 
The discovery was made by some German travelers, one 
of whom, Carl von Steinen, has written in German a very 
interesting book about it all. I wish you could see, as I 
have seen, the feather dresses and ornaments, arrows, and 
carved gourds of these strange Indians. Some of the tribes 
had never, of course, seen white men till these travelers 
came, and they were at first afraid and ran off into the 
woods, gaining confidence little by little. Unfortunately, 



on one occasion, a gun accidentally went off, and the tribe, 
a few of whom were peering out, were never seen by 
their white friends again. These tribes seem to have no 
form of worship, not even hideous little images as some 
of the Amazonian Indians have. But they must have 
their superstitions, as one tribe (the tribes are small) 
believe that their souls change into araras (birds of 
brilliant plumage) and the souls of black men into uru- 
bus, a sort of scavenger bird, black as a crow. 

Some tribes were quite polite, offering the travelers 
food, z. e., game and farina, but if they did not begin to eat 
very quickly, the Indians would grab it all up themselves. 
The funeral rites of one of the tribes are quite strange. 
The men (the women are not allowed to assist) take the 
body to the woods and remove all the flesh. The bones 
are carefully put into a basket, and the skull is decorated 
with feathers and placed under a canopy of leaves. The 
leader, " medicine man," I suppose, gesticulates and wails 
before this skull, then begins a dance in which all join. 
Finally, with sharp pieces of stones all cut their arms, one 
by one, letting the blood drop on the skull. The sharp 
stones are afterward wrapped in leaves and given to the 
relatives of the deceased. The skull and bones are buried 
with solemn rites. When a member of this tribe dies 
everything belonging to him is burnt, — though little it 
must be, — sometimes to the disgust of certain near sur- 
vivors. The men of one tribe have annual dances, in 
which the dresses represent fish, birds, and animals. 
They are kept in a hut devoted to the purpose. No 
woman is allowed to touch the dresses or to enter the 
hut; she would die, so is the belief, on the very moment. 
Yours very truly, 
One Little Girl's Mamma. 

a hanging matter. 

Creston, Iowa. 

Dear Jack: Do bananas, when growing upon the 
tree, turn up or down ? 

In the stores, from the way the bunches are hung up, 
they look as if they grew down ; but I have looked it up 
in several books, and all, with one exception, have pic- 
tures with the fruit turned up. Among the books were 
two encyclopaedias and one physical geography. I never 
saw but one bunch of bananas growing, and that bunch 
turned down. 

Now, I do not know whether the pictures are wrong, 
or the bunch I saw was an unusual one. My sister says 
she does not think any one who undertook to furnish 
illustrations for an important book would make such a 
mistake. Your devoted admirer, 

Aimee Lequeux D . 


Dear Jack-IN-the-Pulpit : Do you answer ques- 
tions? If not, please ask some one to answer this one. 

Prof. Starr told us, in February, about the " Rose in a 
Queer Place," and it must be very pretty, but I want to 
know how they keep the tanks from bursting when mak- 
ing the blocks of ice. I can not understand it. 

Yours inquiringly, Ruth Hertzell. 

Who knows? There is no such thing as non- 
bustible ice, I believe. The boys in the Red 
Schoolhouse will have to think this matter over. 
Meantime Prof. Starr will be asked to reply to 
Ruth next month. 



By A. D. Blashfield. 

Three little Astrologers who dwelt on a hill, 
Where each lived at ease, ate and drank to his fill, 
Were awakened one morn by a cry of distress 
Which made them all start and most hurriedly 


Three little heads start, in a sudden surprise, 
To a bare branch above turning three pairs of eyes; 
There sits, with an air more pompous than craven, 
Their slumber's disturber — a wicked old raven. 

Soon wrapped in their hoods, down the hill, 

through the snow, 
They run to the rescue, all in a row, 
And each one declared he 'd not been so excited 
Since the old black cat's tail from the candle ignited. 

Then those three little men, in their three little rages, 
Said words more becoming to teamsters than sages, 
Till fat little John, a firm friend to the platter, 
By catching the bird changed the face of the matter. 

-«sMr - 


5 jggm 

But hunt as they will and dig deep as they may, While the snow falls without and the day coldly ends, 

They're about to relinquish the search in dismay, Roundapierichandsavoryaregatheredourfriends; 

When, once more! — that sad cry they 'd heard And they smile as they think, in their warm, cosy 

from their beds, . haven, 

Seemed to come from a tree right over their heads ! How the tables are turned on that plague of a raven. 

Ten Little Monkeys and 
"What they are j\hout 

<— -"*-*, » . a -r*l _ T '■!. . . f! 1 Lit * 1 1 

Tkt TJunH.itOB Alonlu 





By Jessie M. Anderson. 

There was a little boy Now this Johnny, — little boy 

Whom his mother did employ Whom his mother did employ, 

In doing all the errands she could trump Saying, " Johnny-jump-up dear, and fetch 

up; the tarts, please ! " 

And she sent his feet so nimble Or, "Run, Johnny, to the spring, 

After scissors, spool, or thimble, And a pail of water bring," 

Till the neighbors always called him Don't you see he grew to be his mother's 
Johnny-Jump-Up. Heart's-ease ? 



Washington, D. C. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am sure you will be glad to 
hear how much good some of your plays are doing in 
the world. 

Not long ago at the National Theater in this city sev- 
eral of these plays were performed by children and the 
proceeds given to charity. It was a bright afternoon, 
and the theater was filled. The audience included many 
well-known people, and in the boxes were some mem- 
bers of the Cabinet and foreign diplomats, including the 
Chinese minister, — who must have found the perform- 
ance very different from those at home. 

The curtain rose and showed " Mistress Mary " sprink- 
ling her flower-beds, which immediately sent forth bril- 
liant living flowers, who followed after the sweet little 

There was much curiosity to see " Bobby Shaftoe," 
for that character was played by the son of Mrs. Burnett, 
the boy whose loving ways suggested the pure-hearted 
" Little Lord Fauntleroy " ; and Mrs. Burnett herself had 
helped to drill the little fellow to play the difficult part. 

Bobby Shaftoe courted one of the little village maid- 
ens, and looked so pretty in his long flaxen curls and 
wine-colored satin suit that she seemed very hard-hearted 
when she refused him. And, indeed, she herself re- 
pented it in the very next verse, after he had departed in 
despair. The little girl sang this part with a sweetness, 
clearness, and precision of voice which delighted the au- 
dience ; and all sympathized with her grief expressed in 
the spinning-wheel song, and with her joy over his most 
unexpected (?) return in a sailor-suit even prettier than 
the wine-colored satin. The two little lovers sang a 
joyful duet, the peasants thronged in to congratulate, and 
all ended in a merry dance. 

I have heard that the operetta " Bobby Shaftoe," alone, 
has been the means of earning more than $10,000 for 
charity, and has been played at least once in each month 
since its publication in St. Nicholas for January, 1S77. 

Another St. Nicholas favorite, " Mother Goose and 
her Family," came next, and the characters in this play 
also were represented by children of some of our most 
distinguished legislators and statesmen. 

1 was fortunate enough to attend some of the rehears- 
als, and was surprised to see the spirit and power Mrs. 
Burnett threw into the preparation of the play and the 
respectful love and tenderness shown her by her son. 

Another play, "' The Enchanted Princess, or Triumph 
of Ether," ended the performance. It was a decided 
success, delighting the large audience, and raising a 
large sum of money for excellent purposes. 

G. B. B. 

New York. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I would like to describe to your 
readers something T made at home. 

Take a piece of wood six and a half inches long and 
two inches wide, and cut five little slits at each end ; then 
take a piece of wood one and three-quarter inches long 
and half an inch high. Buy two pieces of rubber ; take 
one end of one piece of the rubber, pull it into one of the 
slits, and when you see that you have enough to stretch 
from one of the slits to the other, then cut it and fasten 
the other end in the opposite slit. Make and adjust four 

more of these pieces, and then take the small piece of 
wood and put it in under the strings, and you have your 
harp, or guitar, or whatever you choose to call it. It 
can be tuned by making each string tighter or looser. 
Yours truly, M. M. R' . 

Oakland, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little girl eleven years 
old. I have never written to you before, though my 
mamma has taken you for my brothers and sisters be- 
fore I was born, and ever since I was old enough to read 
I have looked forward eagerly to your arrival. I am 
frequently sick, and can not run and play very much. 
I have been very sick for the last three weeks, but I am 
getting better fast now. I have a very pretty little bird 
who sings a great deal. I play with paper dolls all the 
time. 1 got a ring on Christmas when I was sick in 
bed ; I lost the stone out of it ; I felt very bad about it, 
but Mamma found it again. 

Your devoted reader, Helen L . 

Weimar, Germany. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I read you all the time. I am 
almost seven years old. I go to a German school and 
wear a leather apron, and carry my books in a knapsack 
on my back, like all the German boys. I can write and 
read German better than I can English. I was very 
much interested in the story of " The Golden Casque," 
because I have been to Scheveningen and have seen the 
peasant girls with their dog-carts. I liked the story 
about the Christmas play. We had a Christmas-tree of 
our own, and went to a German Christmas-tree, and we 
had two at school. 

Your little friend, ALLEN M . 

Glenolden, Pa. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I wish to tell you how much 
we all like you ; we have you bound and unbound. All 
the grown-up folks in our family read you and think you 
are the best magazine for children. You must hear 
about our little dog named " Rover," a brown and white 
spaniel. I throw him a ball, and he catches it in his 
mouth and throws it back. He had a cut foot once, and 
when we would say, " Rover has a sore foot," he would 
hold it up ; but when it got well and we would say that, he 
would forget which foot it was, and would hold up the 
wrong one. I had a pony ; he died in the fall ; so I got 
a bicycle for Christmas. Hoping you will always come 
to our house, I remain, 

Your little friend, Ed. M. T . 

Clifton, Bristol. 
Dear St. Nicholas : This is the first time I have 
written to you, but I must write to you now, to tell you 
how much I like your stories, especially " Little Lord 
Fauntleroy " and " Juan and Juanita. " My little brother 
is delighted with the " Brownies," and is always look- 
ing forward to the next number. 




I have been living in Switzerland for three years, and 
am now in Clifton. 

The Swiss mountains are lovely, and I went to the top 
of a great many. My sister went out once with a friend 
and a guide. They came to a big precipice, so their 
guide had to tie them round their waists with a rope, 
and they were let slowly down the edge of the precipice 
from where they could continue. 

I hope you will put these few lines in your " Letter- 
box." I remain. 

Your great friend and admirer, S. N . 

Murray, Idaho. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have never seen a letter from 
the Cceur d'Alenes in your book, but I hope to see 
this there. We live in a mining-camp, in Idaho, named 
Murray. It is built in a gulch. The mountain on one 
side is eight hundred and fourteen feet high; on the 
other it slopes back, in benches. Quite high up is the 
water-tank : it supplies the town with water. We have 
two hose-carts. My friend Jim Hemmons is Chief. 

I have one brother older, and a sister younger, than 
I, named Vaughn and Mabel. I am ten years old. 

Last year Aunt Annie sent us St. Nicholas. She 
sends it this year again. Is it not a fine Christmas 
present ? I want to take it till I } m a man. 

Last summer Dr. Littlefield brought in a little bear 
three weeks old ; they fed it bread and milk, and we had 
fun with it ; but it died in a few weeks — a big box fell 
on it. 

The chief products of this country are huckleberries, 
mines, and bears ! 

We have " Little Lord Fauntleroy," and think it a fine 

I go to school, and Sunday-school. I remain, 

Your friend, Chase K . 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am thirteen years old, and 
live in New York. Ever since I can remember Mamma 
has taken the St. Nicholas for me. I showed the Feb- 
ruary number to Papa to-day, as in the article on the 
"White Pasha" it says that Stanley served in our navy 
during the war, on board the U. S. iron-clad " Ticon- 

New, Papa was an officer in our navy, and on board 
the Ticonderoga from the time she was built until the 
war ended; and although Papa has often told me stories 
about the war, he never told me anything about Stanley, 
which he would be likely to do, if they had served to- 
gether in the same ship, because the whole world is 
now interested in everything pertaining to the famous 
explorer of the Dark Continenl. , 

When I showed your " White Pasha " to Papa he said 
it was a mistake about Henry M. Stanley being pro- 
moted to Acting Ensign on board the Ticonderoga, 
as no officer of that name was appointed in our navy 
during the war; but it is possible that Stanley may have 
served as one of the sailors. He did not then do any- 
thing to attract attention to his name or to show any 
promise of the wonderful part he was to play in our cen- 
tury's history. 

While lying at the Philadelphia navy-yard, in the fall 
of 1S65, the Ticonderoga received orders to join Admiral 
Porter's squadron at Hampton Roads, which was get- 
ting ready to attack Fort Fisher. As the war had then 
been going on for four years, it was very difficult to get 
seamen for the navy, even more so than to get soldiers 
for the army. 

The Ticonderoga, when she received her orders to go 
to sea, had only a few able-bodied seamen on board, — 
probably not more than one-tenth of her complement, — 
but as, a few days before, a draft of about two hundred 

landsmen had been sent to the ship the captain decided 
to put to sea, for he was afraid he would miss the attack 
on Fort Fisher by waiting for more seamen. 

The landsmen who had just been received on board 
were almost all Confederate prisoners who, being tired 
of our Northern prisons, took the oath of allegiance to 
the United States Government and enlisted in our navy, 
on the condition that they should not be sent ashore to 
serve in any of the land attacks against the Confederates, 
because, in case of recapture by their former comrades, 
they might suffer the unpleasant fate of being shot as 

The Ticonderoga had a pleasant passage from Phila- 
delphia to within sight of the Capes of the Chesapeake. 
In half an hour she would have been safely moored in 
Hampton Roads with the rest of the squadron when a 
furious snow-storm came on, and she was driven out to 
sea for three days in one of the worst storms that have 
ever been known on our coast, with a ship full of sea-sick 
landsmen. They were so sick that they could not even 
hoist the ashes out of the fire-room to keep the ship from 
sinking. Only by the heroic efforts and gallantry of the 
officers was the ship finally brought safely through the 
storm in which the " Re Galantuomo," one of the finest 
frigates in the Italian navy, foundered with all on board. 

It was in this detachment of Confederate landsmen 
that Stanley must have served, if he served at all, on the 
Ticonderoga during our war, so Papa tells me. 

My father's initials are W. W. M., and you can find 
all about the Ticonderoga's officers in the United States 
Navy Registers for 1864 and 1S65, of which we have in 
our library all the copies bound. 

I did not mean to make this letter so long, but I must 
tell you that I think " Sally's Valentine " too cute for any- 
thing. Your fervent admirer, 

Alice B. M . 

Dear St. Nicholas : Mamma took you two years 
before I was born, and I have read you, or had you 
read to me, ever since I was old enough to understand 
anything, so I love you very much. I remember when 
Mamma first read me "Behind the White Brick," I 
thought I had never read a nicer fairy story. 

I have all the bound volumes since 1S75 in my room. 

I went to the theater for the first time a few weeks 
ago, to see my favorite story, " Little Lord Fauntleroy," 
acted. It was perfectly lovely. I saw little Elsie Leslie, 
and I think she is wonderfully sweet and acts beautifully. 
I have five photographs of her and five of Tommy Russell. 

1 think Mrs. Burnett writes such lovely stories. 

I have no brothers and sisters, but I have a few very 
pretty pets, one of which is a beautiful, intelligent Japa- 
nese pug, named Jap. 

He has very bright eyes, beautiful soft white and black 
fur, and a long feathery tail that always curves upward. 

He is so funny. Every time the bell rings for break- 
fast, if I am a little bit late, he goes tearing to the head 
of the stairs and barks, and then comes back and puts 
his paws on my lap, cocks his head on one side, and 
looks at me with his bright impertinent eyes. 

If I take no notice, he begins barking and pulling my 
dress with his sharp little -white teeth. When I come, he 
goes down stairs very slowly, turning his head at each 
step to see if I am following. When we get safely in 
at the dining-room door he is perfectly happy. He stands 
up on his hind legs and looks so coaxingly that we have 
to give him something. 

I also have a large Irish setter, " Bruno," and as we 
live right near Gramercy Park I can take him there 
sometimes for a run. I have two canary birds, one of 
which is blind. He is very tame, and will sit on my fin- 
ger and sing. Your constant reader, 

Ethel Kissam. 



For the benefit of our young readers who have a liking 
for mathematics we reprint from a recent number of 
"The Universal Tinker," the following item concerning 

A Curious Number. 

Here is something to scratch your head over. A very 
curious number is 142,857, which, multiplied by I, 2, 3, 
4, 5, or 6, gives the same figures in the same order, be- 
ginning at a different point, but if multiplied by 7 gives 
all nines : 

142,857 multiplied 
142,857 multiplied 
142,857 multiplied 
142,857 multiplied 
142,857 multiplied 
142,857 multiplied 
142,857 multiplied 

by 1 equals 142,857 
by 2 equals 285,714 
by 3 equals 428,571 
by 4 equals 571,42s 
by 5 equals 714,285 
by 6 equals 857,142 
by 7 equals 999,999 

Multiply 142,857 by S and you have 1,142,856. Then 
add the first figure to the last, and you have 142,857, the 
original number, with figures exactly the same as at the 

West Newton, Mass. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I thought you might like to 
know of an interesting and very pretty experiment to 
try in the spring. Break off some twigs from apple- 
trees, or from any other tree that has pretty blossoms, 
and put them in water. You do not have to wait more 
than two or three days in the case of apple buds, before 
you begin to see signs of their opening. I have apple 
buds that I cut a little over two weeks ago, and I can 
already begin to see the pink of the blossoms. Horse- 
chestnut branches are interesting, for the leaves have a 
kind of woolly substance on them when they first come 
out. Warm water forces them out faster, I think. I 
have lilac branches that are out enough to see the flower- 

Ever your friend, Ethel P . 

We thank the young friends whose names here follow 
for pleasant letters which we have received from them: 

Jessie C. Knight, Vivian, Frances Marion, H. F., 
Lucy P. W., Alice B. C, Hattie B. Thompson, Carl F'. 
Hayden, Mary A. Lincoln, May Lyle, Frances Gibbon, 
A. D., Caroline E. Condit, Olive C. K. Bell, Norton, 
Fannie, and Edith T., Harold S. P., Amy W., May E. 
W., Maude J., Mabel B.,May M., Emily M. W., Maud 
S. M., Amanda and Bertha, Ethel C, Julia E. R. M., 
Howard B., Walter G. K., Alice E. A., Lyman H. G., 
Arthur Williams, Mary, Catherine Cook, Alice P. W., 
Helen T., L. M. Gaskill, H. Ellis, Annie R. L., Amy 

E. D., Helen Parker, K. R., May S., Hope C, Dorothy 
R., Helen Blumenthal, Mary D. Sampson, Lida Schem, 
William S. B., Arthur E. Fairchild, Nannie La V., Alice 
Brayton, Charlotte E. B., H. A. S., L. B. V., Alice Y., 
Robbie M., Mamie C, Herman Holt, Jr., Harry O.. Fay 
F., L. M. H., Frank T., Bessie D., Josie and Anna, A. 
Hooley, Harry Emerson, M. I. H., Arthur T. P., Dora, 
Alice, Charlie, Carrie K. T., R. Larcombe, E. K. S., 
Ruth M. M., Robert Bond, C. H. Ferran, Elsie B. M., 
Gertrude M. J., Ella S. M., Emma M. M., H. P. H., 
Charles H. L., Gundred S., Dora K. and Emily D., 
Bertha C. H., Nellie, Ruth Tuttle, Marshall Miller, Glenn 
M., Phillip C, Henry K. M., MacC. S., Sara G., Eliza- 
beth T., " Penny," " Rollo II.," Ida G. S. E., Ivy C. S., 
Madge H., Robin II. W., L. A., Ellen W.Joel W., W. 

F. Morgan, Ross Proctor, Clara E. McM., J. W. Fer- 
guson, Lawrence L., Jennie L. M., Grace S. 0., Eleanor 
K. B., W. II., Lizzie S., Edith N., Helen R., A. C. 
Derby, Margaret R., Elizabeth E. B., Jennie S., May 
I. C, Charles C. Whitehead, Annie R. R., Annie P. F., 
Worthington H., Marguerite, Florie Cox, Alice M. G., 
Mamie G., Thos. McK., Charles G. M., M. M., Carrie 
C. F., R. and M. H., Emma I. G., Agnes J. A. 

Lilian Bonnell, of Shanghai, China, sends a list of 
eighty-one characters found in the King's Move puzzle, 
printed in St. Nicholas for January. The list arrived 
too late to be acknowledged in an earlier number. 




Quartered Circles. From i to 4, lane; 5 to S, gear; 9 to 12, 
lyre ; 13 to 16, anon ; 1 to 5, long ; 5 to 9, gull ; 9 to 13, Lima; 13 
to i, Abel ; 2 to 6, abode ; 6 to 10, entry; 10 to 14, yearn ; 14 to 2, 
Norma; 3 to 7, Nevada; 7 to 11, abider; 11 to 15, Rialto ; 15 to 3, 
Oberon; 4 to 8, elector; 8 to 12, reserve; 12 to 16, eastern ; 16 to 
4, naivete. 

Peculiar Acrostic. Centrals, wrong 
2. fa-r-ap. 3. tw-o-ne. 4. ma-n-ap. 5 

Riddle. Nothing. 

Word-square, i. Verse, a. Emily 

Zigzag. Washington's First Inauguration. Cross-words: 1. 
Wade. 2. mAlt. 3. vaSt. 4. dasH. 5, crib. 6. eNvy. 7. 
Gasp. 8. aTom. 9. drOp. 10. braN. 11. hoSt. 12. aFar. 
13. Iris. 14 iRon. 15. maSk. 16. lasT. 17. slim. 18. ENid. 
19. Avon. 20. bUlk. 21. saGe. 22. PerU. 23. paRk. 24. 
dAte. 25. Tody. 26. mink. 27. loOn. 28. wreN. 

Anagrams. Hawthorne. 1. Hermetically. 2. Absolutism. 3. 
Wardenship. 4. Thermometers. 5. Humanitarians. 6. Opinion- 
Numeration. 9. Establish 

Cross-words : 

3. Rigor. 4. Slope. 

Hidden Word-square, i. Elate. 2. Loves. 3. Avert 4. 

Terse. 5. Ester. Charade. Surprise. 

A Cross Puzzle. From 1 to 2, Lenten Season ; from 3 to 4. 
Easter Sunday. Cross-words; 1. lee. 2. era. 3. garnished. 4. 
agitation. 5. Eve. 6. nor. 7. sis. 8. eau. 9. awn. 10. sad. 
11. probate. 12. journey-work. 

Pi. The wild and windy March once more 
Has shut his gates of sleet. 
And given us back the April time, 

So tickle and so sweet. 
Now blighting with our fears, our hopes, 

Now kindling hopes with fears : 
Now softly weeping through her smiles, 
Now smiling through her tears. 
Rhomboid. Across: 1. Doer. 1. Coif. 3. Slit. 4. Lard. ^. 
Tead. 6. Nief. 7. Slap. 8. Fief. 9. Laic. 10. Leod. 
Cross-word Enigma. Spring-time. 

Illustrated Central Acrostic. Centrals, Ister. Cross- 
words : 1. Indians. 2. thiStle. 3. jesTers. 4. pagEant. 5. 


ativeness. 7. Revocableness. S. Numeration. 9. Establishment. 

To our Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the February Number were received, before February 15th, from Maude E. Palmer — May 
L. Gerrish — Louise Ingham Adams — Aunt Kate, Mamma, and Jamie — A. L. W. L. — William H. Beers — Jo and I — " May and 79 '* — 
I. F. Gerrish and E. A Daniell — " Mohawk Valley." 

Answers to Puzzles in the February Number were received, before February 15th, from Edwin Murray, 1 — Margaret G. 
Cassels, 1 — Mary Prince, 1 — "Training Dept .," 1 — Madeline D., 1 — Lawrence Hills, 1 — Agnes J. Arrott, 1 — L. and S. Egert, r — 
Miriam V. Cooke, 1 — Myrat, 1 — "Uncle Tom," 1 — J. B. Swarm, — "Meanteddy," 1 — "Queen Vic," 1 — Clover, 1 — Ada E. 
Fischer, 1 — M. S. A., 1 — " Alicia," 1 — Fay B. Miner, 1 — Katie Van Zandt, 9 — Antoine Schmidt, 2 — Jennie, Mina, and Isabel, 10 — 
L. Lavanda Stout, 1 — L. C. H., r— "Miss Ouri," 5 — Carrie Holzman, 1 — Elaine, 1— Effie K. Talboys, 6 — Alice Wilcox, 2 — Lalor 
Burtsell, 1 — Susie Deangelis, 1 —Sidney Sommerfeld, 1 — "Frolic and Mirth," 1 — Astley A., 1 — Clara O., 8 — M. L. Robinson, 2 — 
Maxie and Jackspar, 11 — Lillie Waite, 1 — Edith Allen, 8 — Nettie Carstens, 1 — Papa and Bessie, 11 — Thomas I. Bergen, 1 — No Name. 
Fulton, III., 4 — Irrna Boskowitz, 1 — L. D. Lawrie, 1 — Roxy's Chum, 3 — "Shyler," 9 — Emma and Clara, 1 — Edith Norton, 1 — Annie 
W. Jones, 3 —Blanche and Fred, 11 — Madcap, 2— Lillian A. Thorpe, 11 — " Nodge, ' 5 — Paul Reese, 13 — Anna G. Pierce, 1 — Nellie 
L. Fifield, 1 — Papa and Elsie, 12 — A. W. B., 6 — E. E. Whitford, 3 — " Infantry," 13 — John and Bessie, 2 — "Ivy Green," 3 — Bella 
Myers, 1 — Roxana H. Vivian, 9 — "Peggy," 1 — H. H. Trancine, 2 — " Ramona," 3 — Hattie Gage, 12— Ida C. Thallon, 11 — Nellie 
L. Howes, 11 — "Nig and Mig," n — Annie, Susie, and Amey, 5 — Mabel H. Chase, 11 — Ems, 7 — Mattie E. Beale, 10 — " Wil- 
loughby." 12 — Judv, 9 — A. Rutgers Livingston. 2 — " M. M. Barstow and Co.,*' 11 — Florence L., 9 — "Tom, Dick, and Harrie," 13 — 
P. and M. T., 8 — Freddie Sutro, 2— L. H. F. and " Mistie," 11 — Paschal R. Smith, 1 — H. P. H. and M. R. H., 2— "Pheer," 5. 


Move some of the books in the pile to the right, and others to the 
left, and the name of a popular story, first printed in St. Nicholas, 
may be formed in a perpendicular line. In other words, by taking 
a letter from each title, not far from the center, the name of another 
story may be formed. 


The letters in each of the following sentences may be transposed 
so as to spell the name of a fruit. 

1. Song era. 2. One law term. 3. In a center. 4. Mop, eager 
ant. 5. 'T is a crop. 6. Plain peep. 7. Rich seer. 8. A speech. 
9. Ere brass writ. 10. Brier scaner. "alpha zeta." 


2. A feminine name. 3. Unshaken 
upon which metals are hammered. 

I. 1. A feminine name, 
courage. 4. An iron block 
5. Parts of the body. 

II. 1. A scriptural name. 2. Spry. 3. Taunts. 4. Vigilant. 
5. Musical terms. 

III. 1. A feminine name. 2. The pope's triple crown. 3. Detests. 
4. To build. 5. Continues. 

IV. 1. A masculine name. 2. A feminine name. 3. To incline. 
4. Understanding. 5. To enlist in. 

V. 1. In the latter age of Rome, a god of festive joy and mirth. 
2. Oxygen in a condensed form. 3. A character in Shakespeare's 
play of' "A Winter's Tale." 4. Not set. 5. Places on a seat. 

0. A. CO. 

My primals name a holiday ; my finals, a poem or song heard on 
this day. 

Cross-words: i. Stripped of feathers. 2. To mount and enter 
by means of ladders. 3. Inclined to anger. 4. The name of a town 
in Sardinia, on a river of the same name. 5. The answer of a de- 
fendant in matter of fact to a plaintiff's surrejoinder. 6. A repetition 
of words at the beginning of sentences. 7. A kind of velveteen. 8. A 
mountain peak of the Bolivian Andes. 9. Sacred musical composi- 
tion. 10. The act of swimming. 11. A musical term meaning 
" pathetic." 12. One of the small planets whose orbits are situated 
between those of Mars and Jupiter. 13. A companion. 





Example: An insect in a poem. Answer, C-ant-o. 

1. A fish in an old-fashioned bonnet. 2. A dog's name in a wise 
saying. 3. Rocks in promises. 4. An Autumn flower in a horse's 
foot 5. A game in a coach. 6. A river in distress. 7. One of the 
United States in given up. 8. Something singular in a sea-fowl. 
9. A bitter herb in a liquid food, 10. A grain in market values, n. 
An animal in a distribution of prizes. 12. Belonging to us in the 
banker's exchange in Paris. b, 



<Wm llii 1 r " 





savant who introduced tobacco into France. 16. An evil spirit. 
17. _A lighted coal, smoldering amid ashes. 18. A foreign coin 

19. That at which one aims. 

which is worth less than one dollar. 

»u. A fixed point of time, from which succeeding years are num- 
bered. 21. A running knot, which binds the closer the more it is 

All of the words described contain the same number of letters. 
When these are rightly guessed, and placed one below the other in 
the order here given, the initial letters will spell the name of an au- 
thor who was born on the second day of April, 1805. 

" LOU C. LEE." 


yiyjirst we all do every day, 

In some or other fashion ; 
My next the first step on the way 

That leads to heights Parnassian. 
My third the smallest thing created : 
My whole with deadly danger freighted. K. n. f. 


I am composed of eighty letters, and am a quotation from one of 
George Eliot's works. 

My 44-10-63-^6 is one of the United States. My 40-76-22-4-51- 
55 is a country of Europe. My 46-73-14-60-35-70-48 is a quack 
medicine. My 42-65-32-24-1-80 is somnolent. My 29-56-9 is a 
creeping vine. My 19-59-17-67 is a mouthful. My 20-28-69-61 is 
to discern. My 43-15-50-11 is unfailing. My 53-27-8-38 is an old 
unused ship. My 21-25-6-13-75 is to search blindly for. My 62- 
2-77-71-79 is a joint of the arm. My 58-37-33-47 is a fleet. My 
30-66-41-12-34 was considered in early history the northernmost 
part of the habitable world. My 16-72-3-68-5-78-52-18 is a small 
dagger. My 74-57-23-54-31-45 is a tropical fruit; my 64-39-36- 
49-7 is also a tropical fruit. " lou. c. lee." 


Hout slupe fo yjo, sewho broth stabe meit 
Rof siedadi Aide, rof slimsbongo prays ! 
Ot cande fo flea dan nogs dribs chemi 
Tes lal teh ropes fo file ot hyrem. 
Grin in the yam ! 


1. In cambric. 2. To decay. 3. The projecting angle in forti- 
fication. 4. A small quantity. 5. Implied. 6. A hard shell inclos- 
ing a kernel. 7. In cambric. " anthonv guptil." 


Divide each of the eleven letter-circles in such a way that the 
letters, in the order in which they now stand, will form a word. 
When these words are ranged one below the other, in the order in 
which they are numbered, the diagonals, beginning at the upper 
left-hand corner, will spell a certain day in May; Lhe diagonals, be- 
ginning at the upper right-hand corner, will spell what the slaves 
were, at the close of the civil war. "ann o. tator." 


1. In sailor. 2. A sailor. 3. Implied. 4. Concise in style. 5. A 
small water-course, 6. Covered with pieces of baked clay. 7. To 
resign. F. 5. F. 


1. Skillful in using the hand. 2. The surname of an English spy. 
3. Dating from one's birth. 4. A sweet crystalline substance ob- 
tained from certain vegetable products. 5. A tract or region of the 
earth. 6. Disposition. 7. A word which rhymes with the last 
■word described. S. One who spends his time in inaction, n. Scan- 
dinavian legends handed down among the Norsemen and kindred 
people. 10. A Roman emperor. 11, An empress of Constantinople. 
12. To vary in some degree. 13. Outofthe ordinary course. 14.- 
The surname of a President of the United States. 15. A French 

I. Upper Square: i. A crustaceous fish. 2. To revolve. 3. 
A wood used for pcrtumes. 4. Puffed. 

II. Left-hand Square: i. A point like that on a fish-hook. 
2. A plant that yields indigo. 3. To stir up. 4. Kindled. 

III. Central Square : 3. Inflated. 2. Goodwill. 3. Always. 
4. A verb. 

IV. Right-hand Square: i. To Stiffen. 2. Black. 3. A way. 
4. Concludes. 

V. Lower Square: i. A verb. 2. Uniform. 3. To sever. 4. 
Ceases. m. a. r. and h. a. r. 


1. Syncopate a lamentation, and leave to establish. 2. Syncopate 
a thin turf, and leave an American author. 3. Syncopate a feminine 
name, and leave a sticky substance. 4. Syncopate a duet, and leave 
to perform. 5. Syncopate to reside, and leave a metallic vein. 
6, Syncopate to praise, and leave a boy. 7- Syncopate a conceited 
fellow, and leave an animal. 8. Syncopate an ache, and leave a use- 
ful little article. 9. Syncopate dull, and leave firm. 10. Syncopate 
a Scottish lord, and leave a substance used in cooking. 11. Syn- 
copate an animal, and leave to ponder. 12. Syncopate a sharp spear, 
and leave a delicate fabric. 

The syncopated letters will spell the name of an imposing cere- 
mony. " RAM0NA. " 




Vol. XVI. 

JUNE, 1889. 

No. 8. 

" ALLEZ toujours, monsieur! et vous le trou- 
verez," said the ancient dame with the snowy lace 
cap, who sat at the little door in the tower wall of 
Antwerp Cathedral knitting, knitting — always 
knitting — the live-long day. "You will find 
Annette at the top of the stairs." " Merci, mon- 
sieur," — as I gave her fifty centimes — " Le 
voila ! " — opening the door — "mount slowly, 
and, above all, take care ! " 

Then the door closed with a bang, shutting out 
the pleasant afternoon, the bright sunlight, the 
cries of the venders, and the clattering of wooden 
shoes in the " Place Verte." 

There was a damp, close, unpleasant smell in 
the air, a flight of steps rose straight before me, 
and I began my climb to the spire, whence the 
cross rises at a height of four hundred and three 
feet. Up and up, round and round the slender 

Copyright, 1889, by The Century Co. 


stone column I climbed, until at last I was forced 
to rest, from dizziness and lack of breath. The 
winding staircase appeared to have no end, the 
tiny slits of windows were so far apart that, in the 
scant light which they afforded, the steps seemed 
to disappear above and below in a faint, blue mist. 
Through the gloom I saw above my head a small 
opening — a mere slit in the circular wall, from 
which there came no light. I rose and looked into 
it. For a moment I could distinguish nothing, 
but gradually a wonderful sight grew as I gazed. I 
found that I was on a level with the lofty ceiling 
of the cathedral, at a height of over two hundred 
feet. Through huge timbers, hewn centuries ago, 
inclining toward and joining each other at all 
possible angles, I looked down upon a scene which 
made me feel almost as if I was in Liliput. Tiny 
black specks, which I saw to be people, were mov- 

All rights reserved. 




ing over the floor of the cathedral far below. At 
one side there was a small black patch in front of 
an altar, and with my glass I discovered that it was 
a group of a hundred or more people assisting at a 
christening. I saw the clouds of incense rise from 
the principal altar, and the candles were but tiny 
points of yellow light in the gloom, like far-off 
flickering stars. Then faintly came up to me the 
notes of the powerful organ. It was a fascinating 
spectacle, and I found it hard to leave it and to 
resume my climb. 

Up, up, higher and higher I mounted, constantly 
finding the stone steps more and more worn and 
cracked. It became lighter, and soon a brilliant 
shaft of sunlight appeared through a narrow Gothic 
window in the tower. I was now considerably 
above the roof of the cathedral. Just beneath the 
window a huge gargoyle shaped like a dragon 
stretched out its length above the roofs far below. 
From the square beneath, I doubt if one could have 
distinguished its form, but from where I stood 
above him, the stone dragon seemed to be at least 
twelve feet long. About him, all carved in stone, 
were huge roses and leaves, — each rose as large as 
a bushel basket. Doves were flying around at that 
great height, or, resting upon the grim figures, 
cooed softly to one another. As I stood gazing 
out at the wonderful carvings for which this cathe- 
dral is famous, a massive, flat piece of metal came 
jerkily up before the narrow window out of which 
I was looking. For a moment I was puzzled, but 
then suddenly it dawned upon me that the object 
I had seen must be a part of the minute-hand 
of the huge clock in the tower. It was quite near 
the window, and I put out my hand and touched 
it. In three jerks the minute-hand had passed on, 
making its mighty round at the rate of a foot a 

From the window where I rested, the panorama 
was unsurpassed. It is said that one hundred and 
twenty steeples may be counted, far and near, upon 
a clear day. I did not attempt this, however. 
Toward the north, the river Scheldt wound its sil- 
very way until it was lost in the mist of the horizon 
as it joined the North Sea. Looking east, toward 
Holland, I saw dimly the towns shining in the sun- 
light. When the atmosphere is clear, the guide- 
book says, one can see towns fifty miles away. 
Below, the great square seemed to have contracted, 
and the few lazily-moving cabs, drays, and people 
looked like flies creeping across a piece of coarse 
bagging. Soon I realized that it was quite late in 
the day and that if I wished to see the famous caril- 
lon I should lose no time. The bells in the tower of 
Antwerp Cathedral are doubtless quite as interest- 
ing to many tourists as are the great pictures by 
Peter Paul Rubens in the cathedral itself. These 

bells have curious histories, and quaintly worded 
inscriptions may be deciphered on many of them. 
Besides the forty bells comprising the Carillon, 
there are five bells of great interest in the tower. 
The most ancient of these is named " Horrida" ; 
and is said to date from 13 16. It is a peculiar 
pear-shaped bell, and is rarely rung. Next in im- 
portance comes the "Curfew," and it is the sweet 
note of this bell that is heard far over the polders 
of Belgium, every day at five, at twelve, and at 
eight o'clock. Next in rank is the bell called " Ste. 
Marie," said to weigh between four and five tons. 
Charles the Bold heard its first peal as he entered 
the city in 1467. At its side hangs " Silent St. 
Antoine," so called because its voice has not been 
heard for nearly a century; and, finally, we come 
upon grand " Old Carolus," the greatest of them 
all. It was to examine this famous chime that I was 
making the ascent of the tower, an undertaking in 
which I knew that I ran the risk of breaking my 
neck by a misstep or fall as I clambered about the 
gloomy spaces of the tower, which were coated with 
the accumulated dust of centuries. A few steps 
higher I came upon a little door in the wall, be- 
side which hung a long iron handle with a knob 
at the end, and on the door was painted the word 
" Sonnez ! " Obeying the instruction, I rang the 
bell, and at the same instant I sneezed. I shall 
never know whether it was the sneeze or the ring 
which brought a response. At all events, while 
I heard no sound from the bell, the door opened 
of itself, seemingly, into a dim passage, and I heard 
a thin, reedy voice, like a clarionet out of tune, 
asking : 

"What will you?" 

" To see the carillon ! " I replied. 

The reedy voice then called out, " Josephine, 
Jo-se-phine ! " A pause. " Fillette ! " 

Then a little voice answered : 

" Oui, Bonne Maman ! " 

" Venez done! Tenez — take monsieur to see 
the carillon." 

" Yes, Bonne Maman ! " and, with these words, 
there appeared in the doorway the quaintest, 
brightest little face one could wish to see. She 
wore a tight little black cap on her head ; and her 
dress consisted of a short-waisted black bodice with 
brass buttons down the front, and a skirt of some 
plain stuff, over which she wore a blue apron. An 
orange-colored handkerchief was tied around the 
slender neck and on her feet were woolen shoes. 

"Entrez, monsieur ! " and, taking me by the hand, 
the odd-looking little girl led me into a narrow pas- 
sage dimly lighted by a brass lamp which hung on 
the wall. Being without a chimney this lamp filled 
the passage with smoke. Holding my hand tight 
in hers, little Josephine led me along the passage, 



and as we passed the door through which she had 
appeared, I saw within, in a room paved with red 
tiles, a little, humpbacked, faded-looking woman, 
sitting at work before a lace-cushion. She spoke, 
and I recognized at once the thin, reedy voice 
which had greeted me. 

" Bonjour, monsieur. Prenez garde toujours ! " 
" Tell me, little one," I said, as the door of the 
passage closed upon us, "'how long have you been 
up here in the tower? " 

when she makes the lace. Oh, the beautiful lace! 
and she gets twenty francs the metre, — croyez- 
vous, monsieur ! " 

" Stand just as you are now, Josephine," I said, 
and there in the belfry I made a sketch of her, 
while she watched me, following with wondering 
eyes every motion of the pencil. 

When I had finished the sketch, I said quickly, 
" Look there, Josephine," and as she turned her 
head 1 dropped a franc into the little pocket of her 

^,wU^dw4^ x . 


" Moi, monsieur ? Oh ! I have always been here. 
I was born here." 

" Was that your mother whom I saw just now, 
making lace ? " I asked. 

"Oh, non ! monsieur. I have no father, no 
mother. She is Bonne Maman ! She is really my 
aunt, but she is Bonne Maman all the same. My own 
Maman died when I was very little, like that," — 
measuring off the supposed size with her hands, 
— "and 1 am nine now, presque." 

" But you don't stay up here* all the time ! You 
go to school? " 

"Oh, non! monsieur. Bonne Maman teaches 
me the lessons. I read much to the Bonne Maman 

apron. I have often wondered what she said when 
she found it. 

" And don't you ever go downstairs ? " I asked 
curiously, as we continued to ascend the steps 

" Mais oui, monsieur ! I was down in the world at 
the Kirmess. Oh ! the Kirmess, monsieur, it was 
grand, and Bonne Maman bought me a real dolly 
with a glass head. Tenez ! it cost deux francs. 
Ecoutez, monsieur, — with a glass head ! Look! is 
she not beautiful?" and she held up a cheap, 
poorly-made doll as she spoke. 

" Beautiful ! " I said, taking the doll from her 
and affecting the greatest surprise at the idea of a 

5 66 



real glass head. Josephine meanwhile critically 
studied my face, with a delighted expression on her 
own, as we went on climbing, hand in hand. 

Soon we came to the top of the final stairway, and 
after unlocking the door with a huge key that hung 


from the ring at Josephine's waist, we entered a 
large space in which, by the aid of a feeble light 
from overhead, I saw confusedly piled around and 
above us and stretching dimly away in the shadows 
a huge framework of timbers that supported the 
weight of the bells and machinery of the clock. 
The sound of the organ reached us for a moment 
from far off and was suddenly drowned by the noise 
of a prodigious rattling and clanking and creaking 
among the ropes and chains which almost filled the 
space in which we stood. It was the machinery of 
the huge clock making ready to strike. For this 
it prepares itself by a preliminary winding begin- 
ning quite ten minutes before the hour. 

I followed my little guide and groped among the 
wilderness of massive timbers, stirring up dust 
which had been gathering undisturbed through 

the long years, and lay thick on everything about 
us. At length we reached a rickety staircase which 
led into a large room. At first it seemed quite filled 
with mighty beams crossing one another in every 
direction, but soon I distinguished the dark forms 
of the bells which were suspended above our heads. 

" Voila, monsieur, "said my little guide, pointing 
to a line of dark objects hanging from a beam 
overhead. " Voila, the evil spirits ! " 

" They are bats ! " I said, as one of them seemed 
for a moment to fall, and then spreading its wings 
flapped away still higher among the beams. 

" Yes, monsieur. But never disturb them ! Bonne 
Maman says that they are the spirits of the bad, 
who have come back to be under the cross. Bonne 
Maman says it, and she knows everything ! " 

Now, having grown accustomed to the dim light, 


I was able to see the bells, which are said to be 
forty or more in number, hanging in tiers above us. 
Some of them are connected with the machinery 

now i saw 



of the clock and ring of themselves. Others are 
rung from below, by hand. To the right, I saw a 
little room, between the upright beams, in which 
there stood a huge drum or barrel, a repetition, 
on an enormous scale, of the ordinary revolving 
cylinder one may see in a music-box. This drum 
or barrel, which is connected in some ingenious 
manner with the bells, plays the melodies one 
hears every seven minutes of the day and night. 
Here is also the keyboard of the carillon, which 
was formerly played by hand. It resembles a com- 
mon board with what seem to be a number of base- 
ball bats extending from it. 

" Now, little Josephine," I said, "show me the 
great Carolus ! " 

" Oh, monsieur, it is forbidden to go up to that ! 
And then the stairs are bad, too. Since the Eng- 
lish gentleman had a fall there, no one has been 
admitted ! " 

But I was determined not to lose this oppor- 
tunity of seeing " Old Carolus" from a near point of 
view. So, quieting the fears of my little guide, 
I took the key from her ring and, mounting the 
rickety stairway, unlocked the door. Little Jose- 
phine sat on the steps and watched me. Soon I 
was on a level with the body of the huge bell, the 
greatest and best beloved of nil the bells of Ant- 
werp, and, indeed, of all Belgium. 

It is called Carolus, because it was given by the 
Emperor Charles V. The popular belief is that 
gold, silver, and copper enter into its composition, 
and it is valued at nearly $100,000. I saw where 
the clapper, from always striking in the same place, 
had worn away the metal from the sides. Far below 
hangs the rope, by which it is rung on rare occa- 
sions, with sixteen ends for as many ringers ; and 
even sixteen strong bell-ringers are none too many. 

While standing on a board which ran from one 
beam to another, I made several notes in my 
pocket sketch-book, and was stooping over to look 
at the enormous clapper, when there came a sudden 
cry from my little guide, who was standing directly 
below : " Prenez garde, monsieur ! The board is 
slipping! " And before I could take a step to one 
of the beams, or catch hold of the huge wheel that 
swings " Old Carolus," down came my frail support, 
dropping me on my back in a cloud of dust. Hap- 
pily, the fall was not great, only six feet or so, 
and I was congratulating myself that it was no 
worse, when I saw that little Josephine was lying 
on the floor, her eyes closed and with an ugly gash 
upon her forehead. I ran to her, caught her up in 
my arms, and, covered with dust as I was, I hur- 
ried down the shaky stairway, ran along the pas- 
sage, and finally reached the little room paved with 
red tiles, where the crippled lace-maker was still 
busily at work over her cushion and bobbins. 

5 68 



" Quick !" I said, anxiously, forgetting in my 
excitement that probably I should not be under- 
stood. " Hurry ! Some water ! The little one has 
been hurt — not badly, I think, — but we must look 
to her wound at once ! " 

I remembered afterward that the little lace- 
maker did just as I bade her, although I am sure 
I did not speak anything but English to her. 

Tenderly puttinglittle Josephine down, I carefully 
washed away the blood and dust from her temple, 
the little old lace-maker meanwhile chafing her 
hands. I soon found that the hurt was not £ serious 
one. The edge of the board had merely grazed 
along her forehead in coming down. I am not 
an adept in surgery, but I flatter myself that on 
that day, I made a most artistic effect with stick- 
ing plaster. Soon Josephine opened her eyes, and 
her first words were for the doll, " Lisette." Alas ! 
when I found " Lisette," her beautiful glass head 
was broken to splinters; but a whispered promise 
of a larger and grander "Lisette" brought back 
the smiles to the face of my little friend, and as I 

left the snug abode high in the tower of Antwerp 
Cathedral, late that evening, the old grandam show- 
ing me down the steep, dangerous steps, a smok- 
ing lamp in her hand, little Josephine was sleeping 
quietly. I should like to have seen her next morning, 
when, upon awaking, she found the shining twenty- 
franc goldpiece which, in a very mysterious manner, 
had dropped from somewhere, and tucked itself be- 
tween the pillow and her cheek, where it lay all night. 
And here is a little letter which I received in Paris 
not long afterward. I have translated it for you, and 
I have been glad to think that perhaps the new doll 
is as dear to little Josephine as the other " Lisette " 

once was : 

Anvers, Belgique, 15 June, iS — . 
Cher Monsieur : I thank you very much. Oh, how 
large she is ! — large like a real baby ! Yes, I call her 
" Lisette," because you asked me to. My head is all 
well, only a little mark shows. I thank you very much 
for your goodness. With great consideration and assur- 
ances of my high esteem [poor little Josephine ! ], accept, 
monsieur, the sincere homage of your devoted, 

Josephine Deetjen. 






By Helex Thayer Hutcheson. 

Heigh-ho ! the daisies ! 
The saucy frank faces 

Laugh up one by one. 
Heigh-ho ! the daisies, 
And every one gazes 

Straight at the sun. 
They leap while we sleep, 
In a night, the world's white 

With the wind-shaken mazes. 
Swinging and swaying, 

and linking and locking, 
Leaning, careening, 

and sinking and rocking, 
Heigh-ho ! the dance of the daisies ! 


Heigh-ho ! the daisies ! 
The soncy, slim graces! 
Jostling the roses 
In trim garden closes, 
Elbowing clover 
All the world over ; 
Standing by waysides, 
All the green May-tides, 
Ragged and dusty, 
Like blithe beggar lusty, 
Lusty and lazy, 
;h-ho ! the vagabond daisy ! 

Heigh-ho ! the tipsy 
Jolly-faced gypsy ! 
Wayside soothsayer, — 




Whom shall I marry ? 
How long will he tarry ? 
Soothsayer, truth-sayer, 
it be Rick, Rob, Harry or Larry ? 
Say marry, say tarry, . 
Say ever, say never, 
Or say what you may 
Of a late-lagging lover, 
But give me a breezy life, 
Give me an easy life, 
Give me a lazy life, 
Give me a daisy life, 
Heigh-ho ! the daisy, all the world over ! 

Heigh-ho ! the days of the daisies ! 

The sheens and the shades and the hazes ! 

A dream o' the noon, 

A gleam o' the Moon, 
Three weeks o' May and two weeks o' June, 
Heigh-ho ! the davs of the daisies ! 

They sprang tall 
By the wall ; 
They shone still 
In the rill ; 
They stood pale 
In the vale ; 
They possessed 
The hill-crest ; 
They were white 
In a night ; 

In a day they lay low, "%jSr 

All the host, 

Like the ghost 

Of the last Winter's 
Snow ! 

They sank , 

Rank by rank, 

They bowed lithe 

To the scythe, 
By the rill, by the wall 
Did they nod to their fall, 

With the plume, 

And the bloom, 

Of the grass 

and the clov 
Heigh-ho ! for a merry life, 

over ! 

By Helen Thayer Hutcheson. 

There once used to be 

At the foot of a tree, 
Where moss grew across and the violets were blue, 

A wee world of my own. 

Where I played all alone, 
My small, naked fingers all dabbled with dew, — 

A green little world, 

Where the tansy uncurled, 
Small weeds dropped their seeds in the palm of my hand, 

And the snail in his castle 

Was my humble vassal, 
And crickets in caves — I was heir to the land ! 

I would creep 

Soft asleep 
To that wee world of mine, 
Subduing myself to the stillness of flowers, 

Breathing low, 

Hoping so, 
1 might grow fairy-fine, 
And steal my long days out of other folks' hours. 

I hoped to grow smaller 

As others grow taller, 
To brew draughts of dew in a brown acorn-cup. 

And sit in the shade 

That the white pebble made, 
But I never grew down, and I always grew up. 

The weeds have outgrown me, 

The crickets disown me, 
The snail moved away, I never knew where to — 

And it falls out to-day, 

In my big stupid way, 
I 'm so blind I can't find that Wee World I am heir to. 



By Sarah Orne Jewett. 

Chapter VII. 

After the great excitement was over, Betty felt 
very tired and unhappy. That night she could be 
comforted only by Aunt Barbara's taking her into 
her own bed. and being more affectionate and sym- 
pathetic than ever before, even talking late, like a 
girl, about the Out-of-door Club plans. In spite 
of this attempt to return to every-day thoughts, 
Betty waked next morning to much annoyance and 
trouble. She had felt as if thesad affairs of yesterday 
related only to the poor Fosters and herself, but as 
she went down the street, early, she was stopped 
and questioned by eager groups of people who 
were trying to find out something more about the 
discovery of Mr. Foster in the old house. It 
proved that he had leaped from a high window, 
hurting himself badly by the fall, when he made his 
escape from prison, and that he had been wander- 
ing in the woods for days. The officers had come 
at once, and there was a group of men outside the 
Fosters' house. This had a terrible look to Betty. 
Everybody said that the doctor believed there was 
but a slight chance for Mr. Foster's life, and that 
they were not going to try to take him back to 
jail. He had been delirious all night. One or two 
kindly disposed persons said that they pitied his 
poor family more than ever, but most of the neigh- 
bors insisted that "it served Foster just right." 
Betty did her errand as quickly as possible, and 
hastily brushed by some curious friends who tried 
to detain her. She felt as if it were unkind and dis- 
loyal to speak of her playmate's trouble to every- 
body, and the excitement and public concern of 
the little village astonished her very much. She 
did not know, until then, how the joy or trouble 
of one home could affect the town as if it were 
one household. Everybody spoke very kindly to 
her, and most people called her "Betty," whether 
they had ever spoken to her before or not. The 
women were standing at their front doors or their 
gates, to hear whatever could be told, and our 
friend looked down the long street and felt that 
it was like running the gauntlet, to get home 
again. Just then she met the doctor, looking 
gray and troubled, as if he had been awake all 
night, but when he saw Betty his face brightened.- 

" Well done, my little lady," he said, in a cheer- 

ful voice, which made her feel steady again, and 
then he put his hand on Betty's shoulder and 
looked at her very kindly. 

"Oh, Doctor! may I walk along with you a 
little way? "she faltered. "Everybody asks me 
to tell " 

" Yes, yes, I know all about it," said the doctor; 
and he turned and took Betty's hand as if she 
were a child, and they walked away together. It 
was well known in Tideshead that Dr. Prince did 
not like to be questioned about his patients. 

" I was wondering whether I ought to go to see 
Nelly," said Betty, as they came near the house. 
" I have n't seen her since I came home with 
her yesterday. I — did n't quite dare to go in as I 
came by." 

" Wait until to-morrow, perhaps," said the doc- 
tor. " The poor man will be gone then, and you 
will be a greater comfort. Go over through the 
garden. You can climb the fences, I dare say," 
and he looked at Betty with a queer little smile. 
Perhaps he had seen her sometimes crossing the 
fields with Mary Beck. 

" Do you mean that he is going to die to-day?" 
asked Betty, with great awe. "Ought I to go 
then ? " 

" Love may go where common kindness is shut 
out," said Dr. Prince. "You have done a great 
deal to make those poor children happy, this sum- 
mer. They had been treated in a very narrow- 
minded way. It was not like Tideshead, I must 
say," he added, "but people are shy sometimes, 
and Mrs. Foster herself could not bear to see the 
pity in her neighbors' faces. It will be easier for 
her now." 

" I keep thinking, what if it were my own papa ? " 
said Betty softly. " He could n't be so wicked, but 
he might be ill, and I not there." 

"Dear me, no!" said the doctor heartily, and 
giving Betty's hand a tight grasp, and a little 
swing to and fro. " I suppose he 'shaving a capi- 
tal good time up among his glaciers ? I wish that 
I were with him for a month's holiday," and at this 
Betty was quite cheerful again. 

Now they stopped at Betty's own gate. " You 
must take your Aunt Mary in hand a little, before 
you go away. There 's nothing serious the mat- 
ter now, only lack of exercise." 



" She did come to my tea-party in the garden," 
responded Betty, with a faint smile, " and I think 
sometimes she almost gets enough courage to go 
to walk. She did n't sleep at all last night, Serena 
said this morning." 

"You see, she doesn't need sleep," explained 
Dr. Prince, quite professionally. " We are all made 
to run about the world and to work. Your aunt is 
always making blood and muscle with such a good 
appetite, and then she never uses them, and nature 
is clever at revenges. Let her hunt the fields, as you 
do, and she would sleep like a top. I call it a 
disease of too-wellness, and I only know how to 
doctor sick people. Now there 's a lesson for you 
to reflect upon," and the busy doctor went hurrying 
back to where he had left his horse standing, when 
he first caught sight of Betty's white and anxious 

As she entered the house, Aunt Barbara was just 
coming out. " I am going to see poor Mrs. Foster, 
my dear, or to ask for her at the door," she said, and 
Serena and Letty and Jonathan all came forward to 
ask whether Betty knew any later news. Seth had 
been loitering up the street most of the morning, 
with feelings of great excitement, but he presently 
came back with instructions from Aunt Barbara 
to weed the long box-borders behind the house, 
which he somewhat unwillingly obeyed. 

A few days later the excitement was at an end, 
the sad funeral was over, and on Sunday the Fosters 
were at church in their appealing black clothes. 
Everybody had been as kind as they knew how to 
be, but there were no faces so welcome to the sad 
family as our little Betty's and the doctor's. 

" It comes of simply following her instinct to be 
kind and do right," said the doctor to Aunt Barbara, 
one day. " The child does n't think twice about it, 
as most of us do. We Tideshead people are ter- 
ribly afraid of one another, and have to go through 
just so much, before we can take the next step. 
There 's no way to get right things done but to 
simply do them. But it is n't so much what your 
Betty does, as what she is." 

" She has grown into my old heart," said Aunt 
Barbara. " I can not bear to think of her going away 
and taking the sunshine with her ! — and yet she has 
her faults of course," added the sensible old lady. 

Chapter VIII. 

The Leicester household had been so long drift- 
ing into a staid and ceremonious fashion of life, that 
this visit of Betty's threatened at times to be dis- 
turbing. If Aunt Barbara's heart had not been 
kept young, under all her austere look and manners, 
Betty might have felt constrained more than once, 
but there always was an excuse to give Aunt Mary, 

when she complained of too much chattering on 
the front door steps, or too much scurrying up and 
down stairs from Betty's room. It was impossible 
to count the number of times that important secrets 
had to be considered, in the course of a week, or to 
understand why there were so many flurries of ex- 
citement among the girls of Betty's set, while the 
general course of events in Tideshead flowed so 
smoothly. Miss Barbara Leicester was always a 
frank and outspoken person, and the young people 
were sure to hear her opinion whenever they asked 
for it; but she herself seemed to grow younger, in 
these days, and Betty pleased her immensely one 
day, when it was mentioned that a certain person 
who wore caps, and was what Betty called "poky," 
was about Miss Barbara's age: "Aunt Barbara, 
you are always the same age as anybody except a 
baby !" 

" I must acknowledge that I feel younger than 
my grand-niece, sometimes," said Aunt Barbara, 
with a funny little laugh ; but Betty was puzzled to 
know exactly what she meant. 

In one corner of the upper story of the large old 
house there was a delightful little place by one of 
the dormer-windows. It lighted the crooked stair- 
way, which came up to the open garret-floor, and 
some bedrooms which were finished off in a row. 
Betty remembered playing with her dolls in this 
pleasant little corner on rainy days, years before, 
and revived its old name of the "cubby-house." 
Her father had kept his guns and a collection of 
minerals there, in his boyhood. It was over Betty's 
own room, and noises made there did not affect Aunt 
Mary's nerves, while it was a great relief from the 
dignity of the best bedroom, or, still more, the lower 
rooms of the house, to betake one's self with one's 
friend to this queer-shaped, brown-raftered little 
corner of the world. There was a great sea-chest 
under the eaves, and an astounding fireboard, with 
a picture of Apollo in his chariot. There was a 
shelf with some old brown books that everybody 
had forgotten, a broken guitar and a comfortable 
wooden rocking-chair beside Betty's favorite perch 
in the broad window-seat that looked out into the 
tops of the trees. Her father's boyish trophies of 
rose-quartz and beryl crystals and mica, were still 
scattered along on the narrow ledges of the old 
beams, and hanging to a nail overhead were two 
dusty bunches of pennyroyal, which had left a 
mild fragrance behind them as they withered. 

Betty had added to this array a toppling light 
stand from another part of the garret and a china 
mugwhich she kept full of fresh wild flowers. She 
pinned London Graphic pictures here and there, to 
make a little brightness, and there were some of her 
favorile artist's (Caldecott's) sketches of country 




squires and dames, reproduced in faint bright colors, 
which looked delightfully in keeping with their sur- 
roundings. As midsummer came on, the cubby- 
house grew too hot for comfort, but one afternoon, 
when rain had been falling all the morning to cool the 
high roof, Alary Beck and Betty sat there together 
in great comfort and peace. See for yourself, Mary 
in the rocking-chair and Betty in the window-seat ; 
they were deep in thought of girlish problems, and, 
as usual, taking nearly opposite sides. They had 
been discussing their plans for the future. Mary 
Beck had confessed that she wished to learn to be 
a splendid singer and sing in a great church or even 
in public concerts. She knew she could, if she were 
only well taught ; but there was nobody to give her 
lessons in Tideshead, and her mother would not 
hear of her going to Riverport twice a week. 

" She says that I can keep up with my singing 
at home, and she wants me to go into the choir, 
and I can't bear it. I hate to hear ' we can't afford 
it,' and I am sure to, if I set my heart on anything. 
Mother says that it will be time enough to learn to 
sing when I am through school. Oh, dear me!" 
and poor Mary looked disappointed and fretful. 

A disheartening picture of the present Becky on 
the concert-stage flashed through Betty's usually 
hopeful mind. She felt a heartache, as she thought 
of her friend's unfitness and inevitable disappoint- 
ment. Becky — plain, ungainly, honest Becky — felt 
it in her to do great things, yet she hardly knew what 
great things were. Persons of Betty's age never 
count upon having years of time in which to make 
themselves better. Everything must be finally de- 
cided by the state of things at the moment. Years 
of patient study were sure to develop the wonderful 
gift of Becky's strong, sweet voice. 

"Why don't you sing in the choir, Becky?" 
asked Betty suddenly. " It would make the singing 
so much better. I should love to do it, if I could, 
and it would help to make Sunday so pleasant for 
everybody, to hear you sing. Poor Miss Fedge's 
voice sounds so funny, does n't it ? Sing me some- 
thing now, Becky dear; sing ' Bonny Doon ' ! " 

But Becky took no notice of the request. 
" What do you mean to be, yourself? " she asked 
her companion, with great interest. 

" You know that I can't sing nor paint nor do 
any of those things," answered Betty, humbly. " I 
used to wish that I could write books when I grew 
up, or at any rate help Papa to write his. I am 
almost discouraged, though Papa says I must keep 
on trying to do the things I really wish to do." 
And a bright flush covered Betty's eager face. 

" Oh, Becky dear ! " she said suddenly. " You 
have something that I envy you more than your 
singing even : just living at home in one place and 
having your mother and the boys. I am always 

wishing and wishing, and telling myself stories 
about living somewhere in the same house all the 
time, with Papa, and having a real home and taking 
care of him. You don't know how good it would 
feel ! Papa says the best we can do now, is to make 
a home wherever we are, for ourselves and others — 
but we think it is pretty hard, sometimes." 

" Well, I think the nicest thing would be to see 
the world, as you do," insisted Mary Beck. " I just 
hate dusting and keeping things to rights, and 
I never shall learn to cook ! I like to do fancy 
work pretty well. You would think Tideshead was 
perfectly awful, in winter ! " 

" Why should it be ?" asked Betty innocently. 
"Winter is house-time. I save things to do in 
winter, and — " 

" Oh, you are so preachy, you are so good-natured, 
you believe all the prim things that grown people 
say ! " exclaimed Becky. " What would you say if 
you never went to Boston but once, and then had 
a toothache all the time ? You have been every- 
where, and you think it great fun so stay a little 
while in poky old Tideshead, this one summer!" 

" Perhaps it is because I have seen so many other 
places that I know just how pleasant Tideshead is." 

"Well, I want to see other places, too," main- 
tained the dissatisfied Becky. 

" Papa says that we ourselves are the places we 
live in," said Betty, as if it took a great deal of 
courage to tell Mary Beck so unwelcome a truth. 
" I like to remember just what he says, for some- 
times, when I have n't understood at first, some- 
thing will happen, maybe a year after, to make it 
flash right into my mind. Once I heard a girl say 
London was stupid ; just think ! London ! " 

Mary Beck was rocking steadily, but Betty sat 
still with her feet on the window-seat and her hands 
clasped about her knees. She could look down 
into the green yard below, and watch some birds 
that were fluttering nearby in the wet trees. The 
wind blew in very soft and sweet after the rain. 

" I used to think, when I was a little bit of a girl, 
that I would be a missionary, but I should per- 
fectly hate it now ! " said Mary, with great vehe- 
mence. " I just hate to go to Sunday-school and be 
asked the questions ; it makes me prickle all over. 
I always feel sorry when I wake up and find it is 
Sunday morning. I suppose you think that 's 
heathen and horrid." 

" I have always had my Sunday lessons with 
Papa ; he reads to me, and gives me some- 
thing to learn by heart — a hymn or some very, 
very lovely verses of poetry. I suppose that his 
telling me what things in the Bible really mean 
keeps me from being ' prickly ' when other people 
talk about it. What made you wish to be a mis- 
sionary ? " Betty inquired, with interest. 




" Oh, there used to be some who came here and 
talked in the vestry Sunday evenings about riding 
on donkeys and camels. Sometimes they would 
dress up in Syrian costumes, and I used to look 
Grandpa's Missionary Herald all through, to find 
their names afterward. It was so nice to hear 
about their travels and the natives, but that was a 
long while ago," and Becky rocked angrily, so that 
the boards creaked underneath. 

" Last summer I used to go to such a dear old 
church, in the Isle of Wight," said Betty. "You 
could look out of the open door by our pew and see 
the old churchyard and look away over the green 
downs and the blue sea. You could see the poppies 
in the fields and hear the larks, too." 

" What kind of a church was it ? " asked Mary, 
with suspicion. "Episcopal?" 

"Yes," answered Betty, "Church of England, 
people say there." 

" I heard somebody say once that your father was 
very lax in religious matters," said Becky seriously. 

" I 'd rather be very lax and love my Sundays," 
said Betty severely. " I don't think it makes any 
difference, really, about what one does in church. 
I want to be good, and it helps me to be in church 
and think and hear about it. Oh dear ! my foot 's 
getting asleep," said Betty, beginning to pound it 
up and down. The two girls did not like to look 
at each other ; they were considering questions that 
were very hard to talk about. 

" I suppose it 's being good that made you run 
after Nelly Foster. I wished that I had gone to see 
her more, when you went ; but she used to act hate- 
fully sometimes before you came. She used to cry 
in school, though," confessed Becky. 

" I did n't 'run after' her. You do call things 
such dreadful names, Mary Beck ! There, I 'm 
getting cross, my foot is all stinging." 

" Turn it just the other way," advised Mary 
eagerly. " Let me pound it for you," and she 
briskly went to the rescue. Betty wondered 
afresh why she liked this friend herself, so much, 
and yet disliked so many things that she said and 

Serena always said that Betty had a won't-you- 
pleasc-like-me sort of way with her, and Mary Beck 
felt it more than ever as she returned to her rocking- 
chair and jogged on again, but she could not bend 
from her high sense of disapproval immediately. 
"What do you think the unjust steward parable 
means, then ? " she asked, not exactly returning to 
the fray, but with an injured manner. " It is in the 
Sunday-school lesson to-morrow, and I can't under- 
stand it a bit, — I never could." 

"Nor I," said Betty, in a most cheerful tone. 
" See here, Becky, it does n't rain, and we can go 
and ask Mr. Grant to tell us about it." 

" Go ask the minister ! " exclaimed Mary Beck, 
much shocked. " Why, would you dare to? " 

" That 's what ministers are for," answered Betty 
simply. "We can stay a little while and see the 
girls, if he is busy. Come now, Becky," and Becky 
reluctantly came. She was to think a great many 
times afterward of that talk in the garret. She 
was beginning to doubt whether she had really 
succeeded in settling all the questions of life, at the 
age of fifteen. 

The two friends went along arm-in-arm under the 
still dripping trees; the parsonage was some distance 
up the long Tideshead street, and the sun was com- 
ing out as they stood on the doorsteps. The min- 
ister was amazed when he found that these parish- 
ioners had come to have a talk with him in the 
study, and to ask something directly at his willing 
hands. He preached the better for it, next day, 
and the two girls listened the better. As for Mary 
Beck, the revelation to her honest heart of having a 
right in the minister, and the welcome convenience 
of his fund of knowledge and his desire to be of use 
to her personally, was an immense surprise ; kind 
Mr. Grant had been a part of the dreaded Sundays, — 
a fixture of the day and the church and the pulpit, 
before that ; he was, indirectly, a reproach, and, 
until this day, had never seemed like other people 
exactly, or an every-day friend. Perhaps the good 
man wondered if it were not his own fault, a little, — 
he tried to be very gay and friendly with his own 
girls at supper-time, and said afterward that they 
must have Mary Beck and Betty Leicester to take 
tea with them some time during the next week. 

" But there are others in the parish who will 
feel hurt," urged Mrs. Grant anxiously, and Mr. 
Grant only answered that there must be a dozen 
tea-parties, then, as if there were no such things as 
sponge-cake and ceremony, in the world ! 

Chapter IX. 

The Out-of-door Club in Tideshead was slow 
in getting under way, but it was a great success at 
last. Its first expedition was to the Picknell farm 
to see the place where there had been a great bat- 
tle with the French and Indians, in old times, and 
the relics of a beaver-dam were to be inspected 
besides. Mr. Picknell came to talk about the plan 
with Miss Barbara Leicester, who was going to 
drive out to the farm in the afternoon, and then 
walk back with the Club, as besought by Betty. 
She was highly pleased with the eagerness of her 
young neighbors, who had discovered in her an 
unsuspected sympathy and good-fellowship at 
the time of Betty's June tea-party. It had been 
a pity to make-believe be old in all these late 
years, and grow more and more a stranger to the 

57 6 




young people. Perhaps, if the Club proved a suc- 
cess, it would be a good thing to have winter 
meetings too, and read together. Somehow- Miss 
Barbara had never before known exactly what to 
do for the young folks. She could have a little 
entertainment for them in the evening. Miss 
Mary Leicester was taken up with the important 
business of her own fancied invalidism, but it 
might be a very good thing for her to take some 
part in such pleasant plans. Under all Aunt Bar- 
bara's shyness and habit of formality, Betty had 
discovered her warm and generous heart. They 
had become fast friends, and, to tell the truth. Aunt 
Mary was beginning to have an uneasy and wist- 
ful consciousness that she was causing herself to be 
left out of many pleasures. 

The gloom and general concern at the time of 
the Fosters' sorrow had caused the first Club meet- 
ing to be postponed until early in August, and 
then, though August weather would not seem so 
good for out-of-door expeditions, this one Wednes- 
day dawned like a cool, clear June day ; and at three 

o'clock the fresh easterly wind had not ceased 
to blow and yet had not brought in any seaward 
clouds. There were eleven boys and girls, and Miss 
Barbara Leicester made twelve, while with the two 
Picknells the Club counted fourteen. The Fosters 
promised to come, later in the summer, but they 
did not feel in the least hurt because some of their 
friends urged them to join the cheerful company 
this very day. It seemed to Betty as if Nelly looked 
brighter and somehow unafraid, now that the first 
miserable weeks had gone. It may have been that 
poor Nelly was lighter-hearted already than she 
often had been in her father's lifetime. 

Betty and Mary Beck walked together, at first, 
but George Max asked Mary to walk with him, so 
they parted. Betty liked Harry Foster better 
than any other of the boys and really missed him 
to-day. She was brimful of plans about per- 
suading her father to help Harry to study natural 
history. While the Club was getting ready to walk 
two by two, Betty suddenly remembered she was an 
odd one, and hastily took her place between the 



Grants, insisting that they three must lead the 
procession. The timid Grants were full of fun that 
day, for a wonder, and a merry head to the proces- 
sion they were with Betty, walking fast and walking 
slowly, and leading the way by short cuts cross- 
country with great spirit. They called a halt to 
pick huckleberries, and they dared the Club to 
cross a wide brook on insecure stepping-stones. 
Everybody made fun for everybody else whenever 
they saw an opportunity, and when they reached 
the Picknell farm, quite warm and excited, they were 
announced politely by George Max as " the Out-of 
breath Club." The shy Picknells wore their best 
Sunday white dresses, and the long white farm- 
house with its gambrel roof seemed a delightfully 
shady place as the Club sat still awhile to cool 
and rest itself and drink some lemonade. Mrs. 
Picknell was a thin, bright-eyed little woman, who 
had the reputation of being the best housekeeper 
in town. She was particularly kind to Betty Leices- 
ter, who was after all no more a stranger to her than 
were some of the others who came. It was lovely 
to see how Mrs. Picknell and Julia were so proud 
of Mary's gift for drawing, and evidently managed 
so that she should have time for it. Mary had 
begun to go to Riverport every week for a lesson. 

" She heard that Mr. Clinturn, the famous artist, 
was spending the summer there, and started out 
by herself one day to ask him to give her lessons," 
Mrs. Picknell told Betty proudly. " He said, at 
first, that he could n't spare the time ; but I had 
asked Mary to take two or three of her sketches 
with her, and when he saw them he said that it 
would be a pleasure to help her all that he could." 

" I do think this picture of the old packet-boat 
coming up the river is the prettiest of all. Oh, 
here 's Aunt Barbara : do come and see this, 
Aunty ! " said Betty, with great enthusiasm. " It 
makes me think of the afternoon I came to you." 

Miss Leicester took out her eyeglasses and looked 
as she was bidden. " It is a charming little water- 
color," she said, with delighted surprise. "Did 
you really teach yourself until this summer?" 

" I only hadmy play paint-box, until last winter," 
said Mary Picknell. "I am so glad you like it. 
Miss Leicester." For Miss Leicester had many 
really beautiful pictures of her own, and her praise 
was worth having. 

Then Mr. Picknell took his stick from behind 
the door, and led the company of guests out across 
the fields to a sloping rough piece of pasture land, 
with a noisy brook at the bottom, where a terrible 
battle had been fought in the old French and 
Indian war. He read them an account of it from 
Mr. Parkman's history, and told all the neighbor- 
hood traditions of the frightened settlers, and burnt 
houses, and murdered children and very old people, 

VOL. XVI. — 37. 

and the terrible march of a few captives through 
the winter woods to Canada. How his own great- 
great-grandfather and grandmother were driven 
away from home, and each believed the other dead, 
for three years, until the man escaped and then 
went, hearing that his wife was alive, to buy her 
freedom. They came to the farm again and were 
buried in the old burying-lot, side by side. 

" There was a part of the story which you left out," 
Mrs. Picknell said. " When they killed the little 
baby the Indians told its poor mother not to cry 
about it or they would kill her too; and when her 
tears would fall, a kind-hearted squaw was clever 
enough to throw some water in the poor woman's 
face, so that the men only laughed and thought it 
was a taunt and not done to hide tears, at all." 

" I have not heard such stories for years. We 
ought to thank you heartily," said Miss Barbara, 
when the battle-ground had been shown and the 
Club had heard all the interesting things that were 
known about the great fight. Then they came 
back by way of the old family burying-place and 
read thequaint epitaphs which Air. Picknell himself 
had cut deeper and kept from wearing away. It 
seemed that they never could forget the old farm's 

" I maintain that every old place in town ought 
to have its history kept," said Mr. Picknell. "Now, 
you boys and girls, what do you know about the 
places where you live? Why don't you make town- 
clerks of yourselves ? Take the edges of almanacs 
if you can't afford a blank-book and make notes of 
things, so that dates will be kept for those who come 
after you. Most of you live where your great-grand- 
fathers did, and you ought to know about the old 
folks. Most of what I Ye kept alive about this old 
farm, 1 learned from my great-grandmother, who 
lived to be a very old woman, and liked to tell me 
stories in the long winter evenings when I was a boy. 
Now we '11 go and see where the beavers used to 
build, down here where the salt water makes up into 
the outlet of the brook. Plenty of their logs lay 
there moss-covered, when I was a grown man." 

Somehow the getting acquainted with each other 
in a new way, was the best part of the Club, after 
all. It was quite another thing from even sitting 
side-by-side in school, to walk these two or three 
miles together. Betty Leicester had taught her 
Tideshead cronies something of her own lucky 
secret of taking and making the pleasures that were 
close at hand. It was great good fortune to get 
hold of a common wealth of interest and association 
by meansof the Club ; and as Mr. Picknell and Miss 
Leicester talked about the founders and pioneers 
of the earliest Tideshead farms, there was not a boy 
nor girl who did not have a sense of pride in belong- 
ing to so valiant an old town. They could plan 




a dozen expeditions to places of historic interest. 
There had been even witches in Tideshead, and sol- 
diers and scholars to find out about and remember. 
There was no better way of learning American his- 
tory (as Miss Leicester said) than to study thoroughly 
the history of a single New England village. As 
for newer towns in the West, they were all children 
of some earlier settlements, and nobody could tell 
how far back . little careful study would lead. 

There was tin s for a good game of tennis after 
the stories were t.dd, and the play was watched 
with great excitement, but some of the Club girls 
strayed about the old house, part of which had been 
a garrison-house. The doors stood open and the 
sunshine fell pleasantly across the floors of the old 
rooms. Usually, they meant to go picknicking. but 
to-day the Picknells had asked their friends to tea, 
and a delicious country supper it was. Then they 
all sang, and Mary Beck's clear voice, as usual, led 
all the rest. It was seven o'clock before the party 
was over. The evening was cooler than August 
evenings usually are, and after many leave-takings 
the Club set off afoot toward the town. 

" What a good time ! " said Betty to the Grants 
and Aunt Barbara, for she had claimed one Grant 
and let Aunt Barbara walk with the other, and 
everybody said " what a good time," at least twice, 
as they walked down the lane to the road. There 
they stopped for a minute to sing another verse of 
" Good-night, Ladies," and indeed went away sing- 
ing along the road, until at last the steepness of the 
hill made them quiet. The Picknells in their door- 
way listened as long as they could. 

At the top of the long hill the Club stopped for 
a minute, and kept very still to hear the hermit- 
thrushes singing, and did not notice at first that 
three persons were coming toward them, a tall man 
and a boy and girl. Suddenly Betty's heart gave 
a great beat. The taller figure was swinging a stick 
to and fro, in a way that she knew well, the boy was 
Harry Foster and the girl was Nelly. Surely, — but 
the other? Oh, yes, it was Papa ! "Ob, Papa," and 
Betty gave a strange little laugh and flew before the 
rest of the Club, who were still walking slowly and 
sedately, and threw herself into her father's arms. 
Then Miss Leicester hurried, too, and the rest of the 
Club broke ranks and felt for a minute as if their 
peace of mind was troubled. 

But Betty's Papa was equal to this emergency. 
" This must be Becky, but how grown ! " he said 
to Mary Beck, holding out his hand cordially, 
''and George Max? and the Grants, and — Frank 
Crane, is it ? I used to play with your father," 
and so Mr. Leicester, pioneered by Bettj r , shook 
hands with everybody and was made most welcome. 

" You see that I know you all very well through- 
Betty ! So nobody believed that I could come on 

the next train after my letter, and get here almost 
as soon? "he said, holding Betty's hand tighter than 
ever and looking at her as if he wished to kiss her 
again. He did kiss her again, it being his own 
Betty. They were very fond of each other, these 
two ; but some of their friends agreed with Aunt 
Barbara, who always said that her nephew was 
much too young to have the responsibility of so 
tall a girl as Betty Leicester. 

Nobody noticed that Harry and Nelly Foster 
were there too, in the first moment of excitement, 
and so the first awkwardness of taking up every-day 
life again with their friends was passed over easily. 
Nobody ever thought to ask how Mr. Leicester had 
happened to give Harry and Nelly a share in the 
surprise of his coming — but everybody was glad to 
know that Harry's collection of insects and his 
scientific tastes had won great approval from a man 
of Mr. Leicester's fame, and that the boy was to be 
forwarded in his studies as fast as possible. 

Who shall tell the wonder of the Club over a 
phonograph which Mr. Leicester brought with 
him ? and how can one short story tell the delight 
of the two weeks that he stayed in Tideshead? It 
was altogether the pleasantest summer that had 
ever been, and Papa and Betty had a rare 
holiday together. Aunt Mary and Aunt Barbara, 
Serena and Letty, and Seth and Jonathan, were 
all in a whirl from morning until night. Serena 
thought that the phonograph was an invention of 
the devil, and after hearing the uncanny little 
machine repeat that very uncomplimentary remark 
which she had just made about it, she was surer 
than before. Serena did not relish being called 
an invention of the evil one, herself, but it does 
not do to call names at a phonograph. 

" It was lonely when I first came," said Betty, 
the evening before she was to go away, as she 
walked to and fro between the box-borders with her 
father, " but I like everybody better and better — 
even poor Aunt Mary," she added in a whisper. " It 
is lovely to live in Tideshead. Sometimes one 
gets cross though, and it is so provoking about 
the left-out ones and the won't-play ones, and the 
ones that want everything done some other way, 
and then let you do it after all. But I thought at 
first it was going to be so stupid, and that nobody 
would like any of the things I did, and here is Mary 
Picknell who can paint beautifully, and Harry Foster 
knows so many of the things you do, and George 
Max is a splendid scholar, and so is Jim Beck, and 
poor dear Becky can sing like a bird, when she feels 
good-natured. Why, Papa dear, I do believe that 
there is one person in Tideshead of every kind in 
the world. And Aunt Barbara is a duchess ! " 

'• I never saw so grand a duchess as your Aunt 



Barbara in her very best gown," said Betty's papa, 
" but I have n't seen all the duchesses there are in 

" Oh, Papa, doletuscomeandlivehere together," 
pleaded the girl, with shining eyes. " Must you 
go back to England for very long ? After I see 
Mrs. Duncan and the rest of the people in London, 
I am so afraid I shall be 
homesick. You can keep 
on having the cubby-house 
for a very private study, 
and I know you could 
write beautifully on the 
rainy days, when the elm 
branches make such a nice 
noise on the roof. Oh, 
Papa, do let us come some- 
time ! " 

"Sometime," repeated 
Mr. Leicester, with great 
assurance. " How would 
next summer do, for in- 
stance ? I have been talk- 
ing with Aunt Barbara 
about it, and we have a 
grand plan for the writing 
of a new book, and having 
some friends of mine come 
here too, and the doing of 
great works. I shall need 
a stenographer and we 
are " 

" Those other people 
could live at the Fosters," 
Betty interrupted him, 
delightedly entering into 
the plans. She was used 
to the busy little colonies 
of students who gathered 
round her father. 

'• Here comes Mr. 
Marsh, the teacher of the 
Academy, to see you," and 
she danced away on the 
tips of her toes. 

" Serena and Letty ! I 
am coming back to stay 
all next summer, and Papa too," she said, when she 
reached the middle of the kitchen. 

"Thank the goodness !" said Serena. "Only 
don't let your pa bring his talking-machine to 
save up everybody's foolish speeches. Your aunt 
said this morning that what I ought to ha' said 
into it was ' Miss Leicester, we 're all out o' sugar.' 
But the sugar 's goin' to last longer when you 're 
gone. I expect we shall miss you," said the good 
woman, with great feeling. 

Now, everything was to be done next summer : 
all the things that Betty had forgotten and all that 
she had planned and could not carry out. It was 
very sad to go away, when the time came. Poor 
Aunt Mary fairly cried, and said that she was going 
to try hard to be better in health, so that she could 
do more for Betty when she came next year, and 



she should miss their reading together, sadly ; and 
Aunt Barbara held Betty very close for a minute 
and said, " God bless you, my darling," though she 
had never called her " my darling " before. 

And Captain Beck came over to say good-bye,, 
and wished that they could have gone down by the 
packet-boat, as Betty came, and gave our friend a 
little brass pocket-compass, which he had carried 
to sea many years. The minister came to call in 
the evening, with his girls, and the dear old doctor 

5 8o 


came in next morning, though he was always in a 
hurry, and kissed Betty most kindly, and held her 
hand in both his, while he said that he had lost a 
good deal of practice, lately, because she kept the 
young folks out of doors, and he did not know 
about letting her come back another summer. 

But when poor Mrs. Foster came, with Nelly , 
and thanked Betty for bringing a ray of sunshine 
into her sad home, it was almost too much to bear ; 
and good-bye must be said to Becky, and that 
was as hard as anything, until they tried to talk 
about what they would do next summer, and how 
often they must write to each other in the winter 
months between. 

"Why, sometimes I have been afraid that you 
did n't like me," said Betty, as her friend's tears 
again began to fall. 

" It was only because I did n't like myself," said 
Becky, forlornly. It was a most sad leave-taking, 
but there were many recollections that Becky would 
like to think over when her new-old friend had 
fairly gone. 

" I never felt as if I really belonged to any place, 
until now. You must always say that I am Betty 
Leicester of Tideshead," said Betty to her father, 
after she had looked back in silence from the car- 
window for a long time. Aunt Barbara had come 
to the station with them and was taking the long 

drive home alone, with only Jonathan and the slow 
horses — Betty's thoughts followed her all along 
the familiar road. Last night she had put the little 
red silk shawl back into her trunk with a sorry sigh. 
Everybody had been so good to her, while she had 
done so little for any one ! 

But Aunt Barbara was really dreading to go back 
to the old house, she knew that she should miss 
Betty so much ! 

Papa was reading already ; he always read in the 
cars himself, but he never liked to have Betty do so. 
He looked up now, and something in his daughter's 
face made him put down his book. She was no 
longer only a playmate, her face was very grave 
and sweet. " I must try not to scurry about the 
world as I have done," he thought, as he glanced 
at Betty again and again. " We ought to have a 
home, both of us ; her mother would have known ; 
— a girl should grow up in a home and get a girl's 
best life out of the cares and pleasures of it." 

" I am afraid you won't wish to come down to 
doing the hospitalities of lodgings this winter," 
said Mr. Leicester. " Perhaps we had better look 
for a house of our own near the Duncans ? " 

" Oh, we 're sure to have the best of good times ! " 
said Betty cheerfully, as if there were danger of his 
being low-spirited. " We must wait about all that, 
Papa dear, until we are in London." 



(With a Moral.) 

By Susan Archer Weiss. 

Ah ! well do I recall how, in the happy olden 

I sat beside the nursery fire and saw the hickory 
blaze ; 

While I heard the wind without, and the splash- 
ing of the rain, 

And the broad magnolias tapping at the drip- 
ping window-pane, 

When Mammy, rocking slowly, with the baby 
on her knee, 

Told many a wondrous story — " jus' ez true ez 
true could be ! " 

"Well — Johnny for his poo' Mamma he wucked 

de bes' he could, 
Tel once she sent him to de swamp to chop some 

piny-wood ; 
An' dar a lot o' 'gators come — er free, er FO', er 

An' de biggest gobbled Johnny up, an swollered 

him alive ! ! 
An' dar, inside de critter's maw, why, what did 

he behol' 
But de oder Injy-rubber shoe, an' his mudder's 

bag o' gol' ! ! ! 

; Well — once dar wuz two leetle boys, name' Jeems 
and Johnny Wood ; 

An' Jeems wuz bad ez bad could be — an' Johnny, 
he wuz good. 

Deir Ma, she had a bag o' gol' hid in de cubby- 
hole, — 

An' Jeems he foun' it out, an' all dat heap o' 
money stole ! 

An' den he run away, so fas' he los' a rubber 

An' Ief his Ma an' br'er so poo', dey dunno 
what to do ! 

"Well — den he tuck his leetle axe, an' right 

away he hack 
Tel he chop a mons'ous hole right frough de 

'gator's ugly back ! 
Den out he pop, an' nebber stop tel he reech his 

mudder's doo' 
An' poured de shinin' money dar, right on de 

parlor floo' ! 
Now, honey! min' an' 'member dis, from de tale 

you jes been tol', — 
Dc bad, dey alius comes to bad — an' de good, 

dey gits de gol' / " 


By Ripley Hitchcock. 

The fishermen, in the little French-Canadian 
village of Perce, thought Moriarty had lost his 
senses when he declared that he would climb the 
Pierced Rock. There was no cliff like it on the 
coast of the Province of Quebec. One huge mass 
of mottled red-and-yellow limestone rose three 
hundred feet above the sea, with nearly perpen- 
dicular walls. It was a great ledge a quarter of a 
mile long, ending in a sharp point like the prow of 
a ship on the landward side, a pistol-shot from the 
shore. At low tide on the southern side one could 
walk along a sand-bar to the base of the rock, 

although on the farther side the water was deep 
enough tofloataship. The waves thundered against 
the northern side of the rock and made rounded 
places and slippery slopes, and, on the other side, 
layers of stone peeled off and came crashing down. 
The sea had gnawed away at the rock so long 
that two great openings were eaten through the 
base of the rock, toward the seaward end. The 
smaller opening, a perfect arch, was large enough 
for a fishing-boat to pass through. A coasting- 
schooner could have sailed through the larger arch. 
From this came the name of the Pierced Rock, 





Rocher Perce, and the name of the village, but the 
large arch has now fallen in, leaving a tall stone 
needle beyond the outer end of the large rock. 

No living creature, except gulls and cormorants, 
.had ever reached the top of the Pierced Rock, and 
on that day, in the summer of 1818, when Moriarty 
said that he would climb the rock, his brother 
fishermen laughed at him. They thought it was 
boasting. Some whispered that he must be mad. 
But Moriarty had sailed around the rock and stud- 
ied its lofty sides until he felt sure that he could 
see his way clear. His boat lay on the beach, near 
the rough tables where men in blue jerseys were 
cleaning codfish, while others were passing to and 
fro with willow creels filled with glistening herring 
and iridescent mackerel. From one of the little 
houses, near a yard where salted fish were scattered 
over the ground, or heaped in rounded piles like 
haycocks, Moriarty brought out a huge coil of rope, 
another of stout line, and an old oar. These he threw 
into his boat. And then they all saw that he really 
meant to try the rock. All the men left their work 
and came down the beach, crushing the whitened 
codfish bones under their heavy boots. In French 
and in English, with touches of Scotch and Irish 
brogue, they begged Moriarty not to throw away 

his life, or told him that he was a fool to think of 
such a venture. But Moriarty was not alone, for 
his friend Dugai stood ready to go with him, and 
neither would be persuaded to give up the attempt. 
Some of the men turned their backs and said, 
" Let them go to their death." Others made their 
boats ready, meaning to see whatever might happen. 
Two or three offered to row Moriarty's boat out to 
the rock, and so at last they started. 

It was a clear, bright day, and there was very 
little wind. If a gale had blown it would have 
been impossible to approach the rock, for Moriarty 
steered for its northern side, where, in rough 
weather, the waves dashed their spray almost 
mast-head high. When the boat had gone two- 
thirds of the way along the rock, Moriarty told the 
oarsmen to stop not far from the smaller arch. 
Just in front of them were hollows eaten by the 
waves, as mice nibble into cheese. Looking up, 
the rock seemed hanging over their very heads. 
Irregular ledges showed themselves beyond, al- 
most red in the sunlight, with veins of quartz 
glistening here and there like diamonds. Now, 
it was along these ledges that Moriarty had marked 
out his path. 

The boat touched a little rocky platform, and he 




stepped out. One end of the line was fastened 
around his waist. Taking the stout oar, he rested 
it securely against a projecting mass of rock above 
and drew himself up, clinging partly to the oar 
and partly to the rock. This was his plan then, 
but some of the anxious men in the boats shook 
their heads. Suppose that he 
should come to a perfectly 
smooth place, or the oar should 
slip, or he should grow dizzy — 
what then ? He reached the 
first ledge, planted his feet 
firmly, and turning drew the 
oar up after him. Setting it 
on a little crevice, he let it lean 
against a spur which jutted out 
ten feet above. It was a hand 
over hand pull this time, al- 
though his feet had some 
support upon the oar and rock. 
Now he worked this way and 
points of rock, and digging 
crevices, and a 
directly upward. 

was now the center of a cloud of cormorants and 
gulls. But he knew his danger and lay where he 
had thrown himself, face downward, his arms 
guarding his head. There was almost a roar from 
the wings all about him. The screaming birds tore 
at his clothing with beaks and claws. 

. ■■■■'' 

that, clinging to 
his fingers into 
am another ledge helped him 
At first, the men below called to 

him occasionally to tell him of a friendly ledge on 
this side or that, although Moriarty knew the face 
of the rock better than they. But now they only 
spoke in whispers for fear that a cry might startle 
him, for at the height where he clung any false 
movement meant death. When he looked down 
it was only for a secure foothold ; he did not look 
beyond, to the waves lapping the foot of the rock, 
and the boat which seemed to grow smaller beneath 
him, for he could run no risk of giddiness at that 
height. Cautiously he crept and climbed upward, 
using every crevice and ledge within his reach, now 
resting an instant and then crawling on, almost, it 
seemed, as a fly crawls up the surface of a wall. 
Ail was going well. He was nearing the summit. 
A moment more and the bold crag-climber would 
b>e safe ; but just then there came a scream and a 
rush of wings. The cormorants and gulls had dis- 
covered their enemy close at hand. 

Luckily they were too late. Moriarty beat back 
the first birds that swooped down upon him, then 
lowering his head, dragged himself with a last effort 
up to the edge, scrambled forward and threw him- 
self on his face, safe ! — the first man who had ever 
reached the summit of the great Pierced Rock ! 
From below they saw the swoop of the birds, and 
Moriarty raising himself over the edge of the rock, 
with the cormorants gathering about him like a 
swarm of bees. They knew that he was on the 
rock, and a faint cheer floated upward, but they 
knew, too, that angry sea-birds were foes not to 
be despised. Over on a Buonaventure cliff the cor- 
morants once picked out a man's eyes, and Moriarty 


He must have repented his rash invasion of their 
homes. But as he continued to lie motionless the 
sea-birds finally grew tired of attacking him. and 
most of them sailed away over the water or back to 
their nests. When he ventured to rise some of 
them dashed at him again, but he struck right and 
left with the oar and presently he was left, by right 
of conquest, monarch of the Pierced Rock, a king- 
dom more difficult to conquer than Robinson Cru- 
soe's island, but not a very satisfactory place to live 
on. For, suppose that he had found himself unable 
to get down again ; he might have lived for a time 
on gulls' eggs and rain water and finally have per- 
ished in plain sight of his home. But, like a wise 
general, Moriarty had provided, a means of retreat. 

The handle of the oar had been sharpened and 
this he drove into a crack in the rock, clearing 
away the dirt and making all secure by piling large 
stones around the oar. Then, after a hard pull, he 
hauled .up the rope to which the line he had 
brought up was fastened. Making the rope fast to 
the oar, ascent and descent of the rock became 
comparatively easy. Moriarty was followed by 
Dugai, and others clambered up by the help of the 
rope, until the cormorants and gulls hovering over 
their nests saw that their lofty home was given over 
to their natural enemies. Their nests had never 
before been disturbed, but now the poor birds were 
to be mercilessly plundered. 

It was rather Moriarty's daring courage, an 
ambition to " achieve the impossible " than any 
hope of gain, that led him to climb the rock, but 
the others were more practical. They were wretch- 
edly poor, these fishermen, living on little beside 
fish and coarse bread, and even the eggs of the 
sea-fowl were valuable to them. So, after the rude 
rope-ladder made the rock accessible for sure-footed 




men, some of them visited it often, fought the birds to the sandy beach that there was very little chance 

away from their nests, and gathered eggs in baskets, for grass to grow. On the part of the rock where 

which were carefully lowered. But the summit of there were no nests, there was soil enough to support 

the rock was made useful in a stranger way. It be- a fine growth of grass ; and if this was not needed for 


came a hay-field ! Think of hay-making on a rock bedding it could be sold for the horses owned by offi- 

three hundred feet above the sea ! ,cers of the great fishing company who ruled the 

On the shore the pine forests came so close down coast. After all, it was not so difficult as cutting 



grass with sickles from the ledges of Swiss preci- 
pices, while suspended by a rope. So, when the 
grass was fully grown, there was the first hay-making 
ever seen on the summit of the Pierced Rock. The 
grass was tied up in bundles, or packed into baskets, 
and lowered by ropes. And this curious hay-field 
yielded over three tons, so that Moriarty's bold feat 
was far from profitless. 

But while Moriarty himself suffered no harm, his 
example cost a life. For some time the fishermen 
climbed the rock to cut grass or gather eggs, and 
some of them forgot how dangerous it really was to 
clamber three hundred feet up that steep side, 
helped only by a rope. Many protested against 

the risk and said that it ought not to be permitted, 
but the rock-climbing went on until one day a 
young fisherman lost his hold and fell. The plun- 
dered sea-birds were at last avenged. Over his 
body the assembled fishermen solemnly resolved 
that the Pierced Rock should never be climbed 
again, and from that day to this it has never been 

This is the story that Moriarty's daughter, now- 
over eighty years of age, told me as I sat in her 
quaint old house at Perce, looking through tiny win- 
dow panes at the Pierced Rock, where the cormo- 
rants and gulls now make their nests undisturbed 
by man. 


By Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

Thou shalt die," the priest said to the king. 
Thou shalt vanish like the leaves of spring. 
Like the dust of any common thing 
One day thou upon the winds shalt blow ! " 
Nay, not so," the king said. " I shall stay 
While the great sun in the sky makes day ; 
Heaven and earth, when I do, pass away. 
In my tomb I wait till all things go ! " 

Then the king died. And with myrrh and nard. 
Washed with palm-wine, swathed in linen hard, 
Rolled in naphtha-gum, and under guard 
Of his steadfast tomb, they laid the king. 
Century fled to century ; still he lay 
Whole as when they hid him first away, — 
Sooth, the priest had nothing more to say, 
He., it seemed, the king, knew everything. 

One day armies, with the tramp of doom, 
Overthrew the huge blocks of the tomb ; 
Arrowy sunbeams searched its chambered gloom, 
Bedouins camped about the sand-blown spot. 
Little Arabs, answering to their name. 
With a broken mummy fed the flame, 
Then a wind among the ashes came, 
Blew them lightly, — and the king was not ! 


By Tudor Jenks. 

The Doctor had said, "Now, Mr. Rowland, I 
will be frank with you. Unless you get away from 
the city, and stay away, I will not answer for the 
consequences ! " 

Of course there could be no hesitation after 
that, and Mr. Rowland, Mrs. Rowland, and Teddy 
packed up their Little keepsakes, sold everything 
else, and transferred themselves to Bartonville. 

Here the breadwinner of the family bought a 
slender stock of goods and opened a small store. 

" You will see how I shall prosper," he said to 
his wife. " My city experience will give me a great 
advantage over the other tradesmen. I shall be 
more business-like, and if you and little Teddy 
will only thrive as well as I shall make my trade 
thrive, we will not regret the stifling city ! " 

So far as Mrs. Rowland was concerned, there 
was nothing to complain about. After two months 
in the new home, she had grown rosy and bright ; 
as rosy and pretty as Teddy himself; and he was 
by far "the finest five-year-old in town," — even 
his father admitted it. 

But, alas ! for the thriving trade. Mr. Rowland 
had put all his money into the hoes and rakes, 
axes and brooms, which stood looking so clean 
and trim before the door. They stood bravely to 
their posts, and equally faithful were the rolls of 
cloth and barrels and boxes on duty indoors. But 
hardly a strange foot crossed the threshold to mar 
the freshly sanded floor ; only a few villagers from 
curiosity strayed aimlessly in and out again, to 
make their purchases elsewhere. Many, in wel- 
coming the new-comer, had reminded him that 
" competition was the life of trade," but he was 
beginning to think, sadly enough, that it was also 
the death of trade, in some cases at least. The 
rent, the butcher, the baker, and candlestick- 
maker, had taken the few dollars saved " to get a 
good start." Mrs. Rowland had darned and criss- 
crossed Teddy's red stockings into ridges and 
lumps; she had turned and "fixed" her few 
dresses until she felt that her worried little brain 
needed turning and darning, too. But their money 
was gone, and the thriving trade had not begun. 

Mr. Rowland tried to be hopeful, but his set lips 
grew into a grim hardness ; and he talked less and 
less of his prospects as the future became more 

Teddy found no fault. He admired his well- 
mended stockings, and pitied those who lacked 
the picturesque variety of contrasted patches. 
Soon after the sun was well above the hills, 
Teddy's bread and milk made its daily visit to his 
bowl, and Teddy never thought of asking awkward 
questions in the case of either mystery. 

One morning the discouraged store-keeper went 
to the bank to draw out his last small balance. 

"Going to close your account?" asked Mr. 
Prentice, the president, who always was particular 
to speak to his customers. 

" For a time, only, I hope ! " replied Mr. Row- 
land bravely, counting the few small bits of paper 
with thoughts far away from any consideration of 

" You must not withdraw your patronage," said 
the smiling president, as he turned and walked 
back into his cosy office. 

Air. Rowland was unusually silent during the 
evening, and even forgot to tell Teddy his regular 
story before putting him to bed. The little boy 
noticed his father's depression, and kept very quiet. 
When his mother began to look meaningly at the 
clock, Teddy came and said good-night, and went 
to bed without a word of objection. 

" Poor boy ! He must be tired out," said Mrs. 
Rowland, when she returned to the room. Then 
she sat down to her stocking-basket. 

But Teddy was not tired ; he was thinking. He 
was wondering what troubled his father. Teddy 
did not mean to lie awake, much less to listen to the 
conversation between his father and mother. The 
door was ajar, and he could not help noticing that 
the usual reading aloud was omitted; nor could he 
fail to hear a word or two, now and then. What 
he heard convinced him that he was right in think- 
ing his father out of sorts and worried, and also 
made him sure that he knew what was the trouble. 
He heard his father saying : 

'' So you see, Anna, there 's no need for me to 
go to the store. I might just as well be here with 
you ; at least I could be at work in the garden, 
and then there would be something done toward 
keeping the wolf from the door ! " 

Teddy heard no more, for he fell fast asleep. 
But when he awoke next morning his mind was 
made up, and soon after his plans were matured. 




"Are you going to the store?" he asked his 
father with some surprise, when the good-bye kiss 
was given. 

"Yes, Teddy; somebody may come in, and 1 
must be there," replied the father, as he trudged 
slowly down the gravel walk. 

Teddy watched him anxiously, and then turned 
briskly toward the house. The first thing to do 
was to get his bow-gun. He did not remember 
where he had put it, but that did not disquiet 
him — he would ask his mother. 

" Mamma, where is my gun ? " asked Teddy in 
perfect confidence. 

" Where did you leave it? " asked his mother, 
a little absent-mindedly. Teddy leaned up against 
the kitchen-table with one small finger in his 
mouth and tried to think. But he had n't an idea. 
At length Mrs. Rowland said : 

" You were playing African hunter yesterday, 
and borrowed your father's big boots. Go and 
find the boots, and perhaps you may find the 
gun, too." 

Teddy climbed the attic stairs, two steps to each 
stair, found the gun stowed away in one of the 
boots, and was so impressed by his mother's sug- 
gestion, that he almost resolved to consult so clever 
a mother about the terrible wolf. 

But Teddy was accustomed to rely upon him- 
self, and had been so often told to try his own 
powers before seeking help, that he concluded to 
keep his own counsel. Now that he had the gun, 
he sought the next thing needed for his plan. 
This was something which had not occurred to 
him until just as he was parting his hair that 
morning, on the third trial, for Teddy liked " the 
little paf to the top of the head " very straight 

" Mamma, can I go and get something from 
Papa's workshop ? " he asked, wdien he came back 
to the kitchen. " I won't hurt myself a bit; and 
I don't want to tell you what it is ! " 

"Yes, Teddy," said Mrs.' Rowland, hardly no- 
ticing the strange request, — she was thinking of 
the wolf, too ! 

Away went the sturdy, small cross-bowman 
through the thick grass, taking the shortest cut. 
Presently he returned carrying with him a steel- 
trap. After scouting a little, Teddy satisfied him- 
self that the coast was clear, and dragged the trap 
around to the front door. He felt sure that this 
must be the door his father meant, for it was 
almost always closed and bolted. He placed the 
trap cleverly enough before the door, but by a 
trifling oversight forgot, or else did not know 
enough, to set it. Then Teddy retired to an 
ambush behind a thick evergreen, strung his 
cross-bow with a care which would not have been 

discreditable to Denys himself, and awaited all 

About half an hour afterward Mr. Prentice, 
walking leisurely down to the bank, like a man 
who could afford to take his time, caught sight of 
a curly, golden head in Mr. Rowland's front-yard. 
He stopped, for he was fond of Teddy and often 
paused to say a word to him. Teddy thought Mr. 
Prentice the greatest man in the world — next to 
his own father. So, when the banker rubbed the 
little curls with his gold-headed stick and said, 
" Hullo, Cuily-head ! Are you too proud to pass 
the time of day with a friend this morning ? " 
Teddy rose from behind the tree, tip- toed close to 
the fence, and replied almost in a whisper, 
" Dood-morning, Mr. Prentice. Please teep twiet, 
and go 'way, please, as twick as you can ! " 

Somewhat surprised and alarmed, the banker 
asked, " Is your mother sick, Teddy ? " 

" No, sir. She 's well ; but she 's afraid ! " 

"Afraid? Afraid of what? Where is your 
father? Anything wrong ? " Mr. Prentice was seri- 
ously troubled. He had little children of his own, 
and wild visions of contagious diseases, accidents, 
and disasters were jumbled in his brain. 

" Papa 's gone to the store. I dess he was afraid, 
too," said Teddy, sagaciously. 

" What is it, Teddy ? " said the banker, sternly. 

" It 's a wolf," replied Teddy in a mere whisper, 
looking uneasily around and wishing, for the first 
time, that Mr. Prentice would stop talking to him 
and not interfere with his plans. 

"A wolf! " said Mr. Prentice, first looking blank 
and then laughing heartily. "Why, Teddy, you 're 
a goose ! There are no wolves for hundreds of 
miles around. Somebody has been making fun 
of you." 

" Yes, there are ! There 's one wolf, anyway," 
said the boy, with a nod of wisdom. 

" What makes you think so ? " asked Mr. Pren- 
tice, for he was one of those who think it not an 
unwise precaution to find out what children mean 
before laughing at them. 

Teddy was pleased by the respectful tone, and 
felt a wish to be polite in return. So, trusting that 
the enemy would be kind enough to defer the 
attack for a few moments, he told his grown-up 
friend how he had heard " Papa tell Mamma that 
he did n't know how he was going to teep that 
wolf from coming in that door ! " 

" And," continued Teddy, " I got the wolf out of 
my Noahs's Ark, so that I could tell him when he 
came, and I got the twap out for him, and my gun. 
Papa 's got to be down at the store, so 's if any- 
body should come there. And Mamma can't fight, 
'cause she 's a girl, and there 's nobody home but 
me — unless you '11 stay ? " Teddy glanced at the 

5 88 



kindly face above him, as if even his brave heart 
would not disdain a companion in arms. 

"My gun hurts, too ! " he resumed, with pride 
(for the banker had not said a word in reply). 
" Want to see ? " and he ottered to demonstrate its 
effectiveness against his friend's leg. 

Mr. Prentice looked toward the door of the 
house. There lay the trap half hidden under a 
spray of evergreen. Then he picked up the brave 
little huntsman and gave him a kiss, put him down 
softly, and walked away without a word. His 
hands were clasped behind him and he was think- 
ing something about " — and thy neighbor as 

Teddy went back to his post, but he was puzzled, 
and his singleness of purpose was gone. 

During the day, Mr. Prentice spoke to Mr. Dus- 
tan, one of the directors of the bank. 

" Seen what a nice new store it is, that Mr. 
Rowland has? He 's a new-comer. You ought 
to give him a little of your custom now and then ; 
he 's one of our depositors, you know, and one 
good turn deserves another ! Really, Dustan, 
he 's got a nice family, and you 'd oblige me if 
you could favor him with an order now and then." 

Mr. Dustan said he would — of course, he would. 

Time he changed, anyway ; the other tradesmen 
were becoming careless, competition was a good 
thing! Then they talked of banking matters. 

Mr. Prentice managed to say another word to 
another friend that same afternoon ; and to yet 
another the next morning, and he did not forget 
to take care that his suggestions should bear fruit. 

The result was very bad for the wolf. Teddy 
did n't see him. In fact, after dinner, Teddy for- 
got all about the animal, for one of the older boys 
came along and took the hunter out fishing. 

Mr. Rowland was at first much surprised at the 
sudden tide of custom and prosperity. Many 
came, and finding " the new man " civil and oblig- 
ing, accurate and punctual, they came again. 

Some weeks later Mr. Rowland said to his wife, 
with an air of some profundity : 

"Anna, my dear, patience is sure to tell in the 
long run ! I came very near to giving up in de- 
spair ; but, you see, the darkest hour was just be- 
fore the dawn. There is nothing like a bold front, 
to scare the wolf from the door ! " 

Mrs. Rowland looked lovingly at her husband 
and thought him a very clever man. 

But Teddy was sleeping the sleep of the just, 
and as for Mr. Prentice, he never told the story 
of their little wolf-hunt. 


By Celia Thaxter. 

LONG the edge of the curving cove the small, blue skull-cap sits, 
Where the gray beach-bird with happy cry in safety feeds and flits, 
There spreads or shuts the pimpernel its drowsy buds to tell 
When rain will come, or skies will clear, the pretty pimpernel ! 
The pink herb-robert all the day holds up its rosy flowers, 
While high above with a purple plume the lofty thistle towers, 
The golden potentiila blows, and the crowfoot laughs in the sun, 

While over rock and bush and turf wild morning-glories run. 

They look down o'er the tiny cove, out to the blue, blue sea, 

Neighbors and friends, all beautiful, a joyful company ; 

When the full tide comes brimming in, with soft and gentle rush, 

It is as if the murmuring sound said to the silence, " Hush ! " 

All down the narrow beach the lilac mussel-shells are strown 

Among the scattered pebbles and by the polished stone 

Where the sea's hands have worn the ledge till smooth as ivory,— 

Oh, such a place on summer days to put your cheek, and lie 

Listening to all the whispering waves that round the point go by ! 

For the sun has warmed the hard cold rock till it almost human seems, 

And such a pillow as it makes for childhood's blissful dreams ! 


The little, glad, caressing waves ! They bring their treasures gay 

To deck the lonely, quiet beach, nor fail day after day 

To strew the slope with crimson dulse and olive sea-weed sprays, 

And lace-like, empty urchin-shells, rough with their dull green rays; 

The limpet's hollow, mottled house, small amber snail-shells bright. 

Broad brown and shining ruffled kelps, and cockles snowy white. 

Oh, such a happy, happy nook ! Were I to talk all day 

Not half the joy of that sweet spot could I begin to say ! 

There 's such a spell of pure content about the peaceful place — 

As if the old earth wore a smile upon Iter rugged face. 

And all the charming band of flowers that watch the sea and sky, 

They seem to know and love the winds that gently pass them by, 

They seem to feel the freshness of the waves at every tide 

That sparkles in, — a gladsome flood, — from the wide waste outside. 

The white sails go and come at will, the white gulls float in air, 

The song-sparrow and sandpiper are flitting everywhere. 

But the dark blue skull-cap never sighs to leave its pleasant home 

With butterfly or thistledown or sandpiper to roam ; 

The pink herb-robert nestles close, content in sun or rain, 

Nor envies the far sails that glide across the ocean plain ; 

The golden potentilla sees the dazzling gull on high, 

Yet never does she wish for wings to join him in the sky. 

For all these wise and lowly lives accord with God's intent, 

Each takes its lot and bears its bloom as kindly Nature meant. 

Whatever weather Fortune sends, they meet it patiently, 

Each only striving its own way a perfect thing to be. 

Oh, tell me, little children, have you on summer days 

Heard what the winds are whispering and what the water says ? 

The small birds' chirp, the cry of gulls, the crickets' quiet creak ? 

And have you seen the charming flowers that have no power to speak,— 

The dear, sweet, humble little flowers that ever silently 

Teach such a lovely lesson, o'er and o'er, to you and me? 

Go, seek them, if you know them not, when summer comes once more, 

You '11 find in them a pleasure you never knew before. 


E3y M^'coln? Pou|Ias, 

J\ little man s chief plea5ure vv©5 in qoirxcl out to watK . 
.And to himself while on hij way , for hours he would talK ; 

for tnere's nothmo - I enjoy 50 rr<.ucK,"hi5 friends he oft Would ted, 
y-\s to hjten. to a perjon. who corwerjeS very well .' 

lis perfectly astonishing; to see the woadrous eaje 
\\/ith which I Ca-n. olij"cour_fe or\ any 5ubject that I_ plea/e , 
./\.nd my viewj upon all Cjuestiom are jo sensible indeed 
1 hat I never in the jKcjhtest with, myself have- dijajOr-eed . 

1 here are many who would litCe to hear me very much, I KnoW, 
.Amd Lm. jel/Yjh to monopolize my conversation, jo , 
|jut 1 cjrow $o interested, when. Ive any thind to 5&y ,, 
1 Kat from, myself I really can't tear my;elf away 1 

By Ernest Ingersoll. 

One day I went up to see our neighbors the roar of which was always in our ears, forming an 
bark-peelers. Our own camp was upon a flat, rocky undertone to all the notes of the birds, humming 
place beside the most marvelously beautiful of of insects, and whispering of the breezes among the 
trout-brooks and in the heart of the Catskill Moun- forest branches. Across the fall lay two immense 
tains. Just at camp there wasacataract, the musical bare trunks, forming a bridge, upon which, if we 




used great care not to slip, we might cross to the 
other side. We did so, however, very rarely, for 
there was nothing there but a steep hillside densely 
clothed with underbrush and a perfect tangle of 
prostrate logs, among which stood a few tall hard- 
wood trees and many saplings of second growth. 
This state of things showed that ruthless axes had 
been through those woods — for the same was true 
all about the head-waters of the Rondout and 
Esopus and Neversink ; but it was noticeable that 
those who swung the axe had cut only hemlocks, 
and that all the fallen trunks were bare. This 
stamped the ruin of the ancient, beautiful forest as 
the work of the bark-peelers. 

The use made of hemlock bark is to tan hides 
into leather ; hence it is known as tan-bark, and 
when it has gone through the processes at the fac- 
tory and has been deprived of its useful property 
for that purpose, it is spread upon garden walks, 
race-tracks, and the like, wherever a soft sur- 
face is wanted. In this shape everyone is familiar 
with it. 

The hemlock is a tree which grows in damp and 
rocky places at a little elevation above the sea. It 
is an evergreen, as everybody knows, and has its 
twigs and foliage arranged horizontally upon the 
branches, so that the whole upper and under sur- 
face of each branch is flat. Its longest limbs are 
lowest down and there is a gradual decrease in 
length toward the top, while all droop instead of 
pointing upward, as in most trees. This gives a 
conical and somewhat dark and sorrowful aspect 
to the hemlock, very different from the cheerful 
appearance of the brighter-barked and more airy 

On some mountains the hemlocks grow in groves 
or copses by themselves, sometimes covering large 
areas, with hardly any other varieties. These are 
very somber woods, I assure you, but the most valu- 
able. They are the ones beloved by animals in 
winter, for underneath the drooping, sheltering 
eaves of the great, low-limbed frees the wood-dwel- 
lers find spaces into which the snow can hardly 
penetrate, and so secure good housing from the 

My way up to where the bark-peelers were at 
work, however, lay through no such solid forest, 
but by a rough old road along the tumbling 
brook and upon the steep mountain side, through 
green groves and thickets that kept out the sun and 
kept in moisture for the nourishment of innumer- 
able weeds, aromatic herbs, ferns, and late June 
flowers. These old roads are only lanes, cleared 
out enough to make a passable way down to civiliza- 
tion. They go nowhere in particular, are only used 
by the bark-cutters, by the lumbermen who drag 
logs down to the mill, and by occasional picnickers, 

like ourselves. So small is the amount of travel, 
it does not pay to keep them in good order ; 
hence they are full of holes, big rocks, and bridges 
to cross which would frighten any but a mount- 
aineer, while it frequently happens that the first 
party to pass in the spring has to chop through a 
dozen or so of trees that have fallen across the track. 
But this loneliness makes these old secluded 
wood-roads all the pleasanter as lounging places 
in mid-summer. Along their edges grow many 
more flowers than you can find in the shady re- 
cesses of the woods, and under your feet a firm turf 
takes the place of sodden leaves. Overhead stands 
a tall Gothic arch, where the tips of the branches 
meet from both sides, yet no array of trunks ob- 
structs the eye as you look ahead down a sun- 
streaked path. Here the hemlocks had long ago 
been culled out, and there remained chiefly the 
strong beeches (which seem the most dignified 
and substantial of forest trees), black, shining wild- 
cherry trees, broad-reaching maples, lindens, and 
various inconspicuous kinds, while, — wherever the 
ground was low, — 

" Like beggared princes of the wood 
In silver rags the birches stood." 

These green aisles are a fine thing for the animals 
of every sort which make these lofty mountains 
their pleasant home. Here you may see the track 
of the fox, and find the run-way of the wild mouse 
or the minute footprint of the tiny shrew, and dis- 
cover the porcupine searching by moonlight for his 
supper of beetles or the juicy young of grasshoppers 
and other insects. Butterflies are beguiled hither, 
far from the hot outside clearings where they love 
to play, and you will see more birds of every sort 
in half an hour here, than half a day in the forest 
could show you. The birds love these sunny open- 
ings, both because they are warm and pleasant and 
because here they find many times more small 
insects and weed-seeds, upon which to feed, than 
ever exist in the deep woods. 

After tramping slowly a mile or so, along such 
an old road, I came upon a little clearing and saw 
a log house, with signs of inhabitants about it. 1 
went up to it and learned that it was where the 
bark-peelers stayed at night. One of them had 
brought his wife and children here, and the family 
kept house for the rest, sixteen in all. 

This log house was an old affair and a large one. 
It was about six logs high, above which was a roof 
of slabs, very good in dry weather, but not of much 
account on a wet night. There was a low door and 
only one window, so that at first the inside seemed 
to me as dark as a cave. There was no floor but 
hard-tramped earth, and benches were used to sit 
on. Upon the first floor were the primitive accom- 



modations for the family that kept house for the 
lumbermen. The man, his wife, and their four 
children occupied all this part of the house at 
night. Overhead was a loft, covering the most of 
the room below, and reached by a ladder. Here 
the men slept upon pallets of straw spread on the 
slab floor. 

This was the way the party lived, and as they 
were not soft-handed nor afraid to rough it, it was 
a sufficiently comfortable way during the summer 
days that they worked in the woods. The woman, 
however, thought she should be glad when she 
could go back to her pleasant home in the valley, 
and cook for a less numerous family. 

The men were at work some distance up the side 
of the mountain, which was a spur of great Peaka- 
moose, and I was guided up by a man who was tak- 
ing them some addition to their dinners. The road 
ceased altogether, soon after we left the shanty, and 
it was not long before even the path disappeared, 
so that we had to force our way through the thick 
woods up the steep slope, guided only by the 
sounds of chopping and the crash of falling trees 
which came to our ears. 

Most of the men were young fellows, with tall, 
strong, active frames and frank, honest faces. One 
or two of them wore red flannel shirts which looked 
very picturesque among the green trees, and all 
of them made so merry over their hard work 
that the felling of huge trees and lopping of stout 
branches seemed rather play than labor. 

When bark-peelers go into the woods, they di- 
vide themselves into parties of four or five who 
work together. Each one of these parties con- 
tains choppers, fixers, and spiidders. 

The beginning of operations belongs to the 
first class. The chopper chooses the first good- 
sized hemlock that is seen, and it is attacked near 
the root with sharp and skillful axe until it tum- 
bles headlong in just the desired direction. The 
fall of one of these trees, especially if it be a large 
one, is an impressive sight. The chopper cuts a 
broad opening on one side fully half through 
the great trunk, yet the tree stands firm and pays 
no attention to the blows, nor to the heavy chips 
that continually fly away from its dark, red heart- 
wood. Then the chopper goes around on the 
other side, and cuts anew gash, a little lower than 
the first one, since he intends the tree to fall to that 
side. Here, too, he cuts deep in before there are 
any signs of conquest. As the axe begins to touch 
the center, however, the topmost limbs are seen 
to tremble, then to sway, and a cracking sound 
follows the repeated blows which warn the poor tree 
that its time has come. Then there is a tottering, 
a little leaning toward the weaker side, which has 
the lower cut, and the woodman, keeping his eye 

upward and his feet ready to jump, hurls one last 
powerful stroke into the overstrained fibers. They 
fly apart with a loud noise, the great crown bows 
toward the earth, gains swifter motion as it de- 
scends, and comes crashing down upon the weak 
and resistless brushwood with a noise like the 
muffled roar of a whole battery and a force which 
shakes the earth. 

Now comes the work of the " fixers." They 
leap upon the butt of the fallen giant, and, striking 
at the lowest limbs, first cut off every branch until 
all are lopped away to where the trunk grows 
too narrow to be worth trimming. As fast as a 
little space of the trunk is cleared, one of the men 
cuts a notch through the bark and around the 
trunk — "rings" it, as he would say. Four feet 
further on he cuts another ring, and then slits the 
bark lengthwise from one ring to the other, on 
three or four sides of the tree. This goes on every 
four feet, as fast as the tree is trimmed, until the 
whole length has been thus "fixed." 

Last of all comes the "spudder," whose duty it 
is to pry off the great flakes of bark which have 
been notched and split for him. He takes his 
name from the tool he uses, which is a sort of small, 
heavy, sharp-edged spade, with a short handle ; 
perhaps to call it a round-bladed chisel would de- 
scribe it more nearly. To pry off the bark in this 
way seems very easy, but they told me it was the 
hardest work of all, and that it required considera- 
ble skill to do it properly. 

► When the bark has been removed it must be made 
up into regular piles so as to be measured, for it is 
estimated and sold by the cord. This is hard work, 
for the green and juicy bark is very heavy and 
rough to handle. Sometimes a tree will be found 
so large as to furnish a cord, or even more, alone ; 
but the average rate of yield is much less, so that 
experts calculate that four trees must be cut down 
to obtain a cord of bark. 

It is only when the new wood is forming just 
underneath, and the cells are soft and full of sap, 
that the bark can be stripped from the log in large 
pieces. Peeling, therefore, can be carried on only 
during May and June. The cords of bark piled 
then are left to dry all the summer and fall, and 
are hauled out in winter by ox-teams with sleds, 
when the deep snow makes a smooth track over 
even so terribly rough a road as the one I have 

The bark-peelers were a very jolly lot of fellows, 
singing and joking as they worked, and at dinner 
there was one incessant rattle of stories and fun. 
They work hard, eat heartily, go to bed as soon as 
it is dark, and rise at dawn. 

It is interesting work — but it leaves a ruined 
forest behind ! 


By Helen Gray Cone. 

In June, when skies are soft and blue, 

And, somehow, seem to smile like Mother, 

In morning fields that flash with dew 
The clovers lavish to one another. 

The rosy faces dip and rise, 

As if the breeze said something funny ; 
Or maybe 't was the bee, that flies 

From head to head, to gather honey. 

Or, if he has n't time to joke. 

Perhaps it was the cat-bird's chatter, — 
That noisy rogue in sober cloak. 

You merry Clovers, what 's the matter ? 

You shake and shake about my feet, 

And still on every side I meet you'. 
What makes you laugh? You know you 're sweet - 

You 'd better tell, or else I 'II eat you ! 

The open secret 's this : (the breeze, 
The bird, the bee, that surly hummer. 

All know it, dear !) we 're laughing, please, 
To think it 's really, reallv summer ! " 

Vol. XVI.— 38. 

Of all the things 
which made her poor 
little life miserable, 
and there were plenty 
of them, Tilly Ann 
disliked worst — ex- 
cepting Miss Pin- 
chimp, of course ; always 
excepting Miss Pinchimp — 
the india-rubber tree. The india-rub- 
ber tree was Miss Pinchimp's dearest treasure, 
which perhaps was reason enough why Tilly Ann 
should not be fond of it ; and so great was Miss 
Pinchimp's pride in the plant that she was con- 
stantly having its leaves washed. Whenever Tilly 
Ann was not washing dishes, or picking up chips 
in the back yard, or weeding in the garden, or sew- 
ing together the edges of an old sheet that had 
been ripped down the middle to bring the worn 
part to the edges, or doing some other chore of a 
like nature, she was set to wash the leaves of the 
india-rubber tree. 

The india-rubber tree was five feet tall, to begin 
with, aside from the tub in which it grew, and to 
give it a more imposing appearance this tub was 
mounted upon a stool, so that when the plant was 
to have its bath Tilly Ann was obliged to begin 
operations by bringing in a wooden chair from the 
kitchen, on which to stand while she cleaned the 
great shiny leaves. Then she would wash away with 
patient care every stray speck of dust, for well did 
she know how narrowly Miss Pinchimp would exam- 
ine to see whether the work were done thoroughly. 
And Tilly Ann's chief treasure was a large clasp- 
pin. It was a little bent, and the silver wash was 
almost entirely worn away, but it was absolutely 
necessary for the kilting up of the childish petti- 
coats of Tilly Ann when she indulged in those 
gymnastics which were her only recreation, and 
which commanded the wondering admiration of all 
the village children, on those rare occasions when 
the strange little maid could escape from the eyes 

of her mistress and give an impromptu exhibition 
of her talents. 

For Tilly Ann was, by birth, a little acrobat. Her 
parents had been professionals who had come to 
Topton with a circus, and been unable to go on 
because the mother was ill unto death. The father 
and little Tilly Ann, a thin, half-starved morsel of 
five, had watched beside the death-bed, and then, 
just as they turned from the grave of the wife and 
mother to go forward to the town where the 
circus was exhibiting, the father fell down in a 
fit, and in two days more Tilly Ann was doubly 

The poor little mite was prematurely old, and 
of a certain uncanny wisdom in many matters. 
She had lived all her life in the atmosphere of the 
circus, and in many of the acrobatic tricks which 
her father and mother performed she had learned 
to take a part. It was often little more than being 
thrown from one to the other in a way which really 
was not at all dangerous, but which looked so ; or 
than standing on the head of one or the other of 
them. But already Tilly Ann had figured in the 
bills as Mile. Petite ; and she was not without a 
pretty clear idea of what that meant, too. After 
her father's death, she had but one thought, and 
that was to get back to the circus again. There 
people had been kind to her, her father and 
mother had praised her, and the applause of the 
public had already touched her little head with its 
dangerous delight. 

When she was sent first to the poor-farm, and 
then to the far less kindly dwelling of Miss Pin- 
chimp, Tilly Ann's stout little heart was very 
nearly broken ; and when, after three separate 
attempts to run away, she had been captured and 
brought back, the child must have fallen into titter 
despair had it not been for the secretly cherished 
hope that some day the same old circus would 
appear in Topton and take her away from all this 
hateful life. To this hope she clung, and mean- 
while she improved every possible opportunity to 



practice the gymnastics she had been taught, or 
which she remembered having seen her father and 
others do. The fence of the back yard was high, 
and a convenient row of tall lilacs cut off the view 
from the back windows, and on the turf of the back 
yard did Tilly Ann, her scant petticoats kilted up 
with the invaluable safety-pin, turn and tumble in 
a way that would have made Miss Pinchimp rigid 
with horror had she witnessed the spectacle. 

For Miss Eliza Pinchimp was nothing if not 
proper. She was a large body, and might there- 
from have been expected to be good natured, 
whereas the truth seemed to be that there was only 
so much the more of her to be disagreeable. A big 
bowl of milk makes much more bonny-clabber than 
a wee pitcher full, and it may have been on this 
principle that Miss Pinchimp was the most com- 
pletely cross and unpleasant person in the whole 

One July morning Tilly Ann was, as usual, wash- 
ing the india-rubber tree, but anybody who looked 
at her could see that her whole small person was 
fairly quivering with excitement. She craned her 
neck toward the window through which from afar 
came the sound of a band and a confused buzz as 
of the distant voices of small boys, all of which an- 
nounced that the circus was coming to Topton. 
At any time this would have filled the soul of Tilly 
Ann with wildest emotion, but to-day she had 
especial cause for excitement. On one of the big, 
flaming posters with which the whole neighborhood 
had been decorated for a fortnight, Tilly Ann had 
seen a name she knew. It was Signor Bernassio, 
advertised as " the world renowned and unparalleled 
juggler and knife-thrower," and Tilly Ann remem- 
bered Signor Bernassio perfectly. His real name 
was Tim Bernaise, and he had been a warm friend 
of the father and mother of the poor little waif 
stranded in unfriendly Topton, and doomed to the 
continual washing of the leaves of Miss Pinchimp's 
india-rubber tree. 

From the moment she saw this name, the mind 
of Tilly Ann had been in a ferment. She felt, with 
a quivering excitement, that the time for escape 
had come at last. How she was to get away she 
had no idea, but get away she must ; and this 
morning, while she scrubbed away at the big leaves 
with unconscious vigor, her shrewd little head was 
full of wild plans that became more and more im- 
possible as the sound of the far-off band increased 
her excitement. How the old days came back to 
Tilly Ann as she stood there, and how delightful 
did the past seem in contrast with the present. 
She leaned so far forward in her excitement, that at 
last the wooden chair on which she stood gave a 
sudden lurch, and Tilly Ann saved herself from a 
bad tumble only by jumping nimbly to the floor. 

She saved herself and she even kept almost all 
the water in the basin from spilling ; but, alas and 
alack ! one of the stiff, shiny leaves of the india- 
rubber tree was broken short off in the middle. 
Tilly Ann stared at the broken leaf, with her mouth 
open and a dreadful feeling that the only hope for 
her must now be that the earth would open and 
swallow her. She knew Miss Pinchimp's affection 
for the plant, and she knew but too well Miss Pin- 
chimp's temper and the weight of Miss Pinchimp's 
hand. Necessity and abuse had sharpened her 
shrewd little wits, and with the awful vision of one 
of her mistress's floggings before her eyes, Tilly 
Ann's small but keen brain was not long in devising 
a means of escaping at least present detection. 
With a long pin stuck through the rib of the leaf, 
she very cleverly fastened the broken piece in its 
place, and then turned the tub around so that the 
mended part of the plant came against the folds 
of the lace window-curtain. 

Tilly Ann had scarcely accomplished this in- 
genious deception when she heard the approach- 
ing steps of Miss Pinchimp, and while her guilty 
little heart trembled with fear, that lady's big per- 
son appeared in the doorway. 

" Well," Miss Pinchimp said, in a voice that 
showed that her temper, never very sweet, was 
unusually acid that morning, " I hope you have 
been long enough about washing the india-rubber 

" It is all done now, ma'am," Tilly Ann answered 

Miss Pinchimp sailed across the room and ex- 
amined the plant critically. 

"You've made all the leaves streaked," she 
said. "What have you turned it round for? 
You — " 

The words died on her lip. Her mistress had 
moved the india-rubber tree half-way about, when 
the mended leaf caught in the lace curtain and the 
broken portion turned, as on a pivot, on the pin 
with which it was fastened. Tilly Ann waited to 
see no more. She dashed out of the room and 
fled to her usual refuge, the roof of the shed, 
while Miss Pinchimp, fat and scant of breath, 
vainly tried to catch her before she could attain 
to that safe, but rather dangerous, elevation. 

The roof of the shed was Tilly Ann's City of 
Refuge. Here she could look down in scornful 
triumph upon her enemy, who sometimes skir- 
mished about with a long bean-pole, vainly en- 
deavoring, as Tilly Ann expressed it. " to whack 
the legs off of me," but who had learned from 
experience that, on the whole, the wisest plan was 
to wait until the fugitive came down, and then to 
pounce upon her. 

For the unfortunate part of it was, that Tilly 




Ann had to come down. She often wished, with 
all the passionate despair of eight years, that she 
were a bird, that she might take flight from the roof 
into the homeless freedom of the air, and she 
even had seasons of thinking that she would find 
consolation in being one of the cats who went so 
lightly from roof to roof and defied all attempts at 
capture. The race of Miss Pinchimp and Tilly 
Ann was not a dignified one, but it was funny, 
had there been anybody to see the droll side of it. 
Miss Pinchimp, however, was too angry and Tilly- 

was perched, and then she turned toward Miss 
Eliza, who, seated on an inverted tub in the yard 
below, was recovering her breath. 

" And enough sight better off would I 'a' been 
in the poor-house," said Tilly Ann, boldly, " than 
I've ever been with you! You've beat me and 
starved me, and never done nothin' decent for me ; 
and now I Ye stood it just as long as I could, and 
I 'm goin' off." 

"Going off!" echoed Miss Pinchimp, com- 
pletely taken aback by the boldness of this address 


afc > 



Ann too frightened to look upon it lightly. The 
child scrambled up over the hen-house like a squir- 
rel and gained the temporary safety of the wood- 
shed roof, while her mistress, hot and breathless, 
stood below and shook her fist wrathfully. 

" I '11 settle with you. when you come down from 
there," panted Miss Pinchimp. "This is what I 
get for saving you from the poor house and being 
kind to you, you lazy circus imp ! " 

Now, in all the unhappy years poor Tilly Ann 
had lived with Miss Pinchimp she had never been 
impudent ; she had received in silence whatever 
her mistress had chosen to say ; but this taunt at 
her origin was too much even for her patience. 
She looked over to the gay flags fluttering from 
the tents, in full sight from the roof where she 

tilly Ann's city of refuge. 

" Oh, you think you 're going back to the circus, 
do you? I knew you'd be up to that sooner or 
later. You just try it, and I 'II send Cy Cates after 
you ; and he 's a constable, I 'd have you to know." 

Secretly, Tilly Ann was decidedly impressed by 
this threat, but the safety of the shed roof and the 
absence of any sign of the appearance of Cy Cates 
gave her courage to hide her fear. 

"Oh, I ain't scared," she called down. 

Then, from sheer recklessness and the excitement 
of having at last defied her mistress, she began to 
sing shrilly a saucy rhyme that the village children, 
who bore Miss Pinchimp no good will, were in the 
habit of singing for the benefit of Tilly Ann. 

It would be hard to find any excuse for poor 
Tillv Ann, as she sat on the roof of the shed fling- 



chimp, except that she had had little opportunity 
to learn any better. By a strange chance, the 
one person in all Topton who had tried to teach 
the child what was right and who had been kind 
to her, appeared on the scene at this moment. It 
was Miss Rose May, Tilly Ann's Sunday-school 
teacher, who, finding the house door open and 
nobody in sight, had walked in after the friendly 
fashion of country folk, and who had been led by 
the sound of Tilly Ann's shrill singing to the back 
door, which opened into the yard where sat Miss 
Pinchimp on the inverted tub, red with wrath and 
her exertions in the race. 

Tilly Ann almost fell off the roof when she saw 
Miss Rose, but her attention was quickly diverted. 
Miss Pinchimp attempted to start up from her 
seat, when suddenly the bottom of the tub on 
which she was sitting gave way, and with a crash 
and a scream she fell back into the middle of the 
hoops and staves, where she was imprisoned help- 
lessly. The child on the roof sent up a shriek of 
laughter, while Miss Rose ran forward to help the 
struggling prisoner. 

" Tilly Ann," Miss Rose said, "stop laughing ! — 
and come and help me." 

"I dars n't," Tilly Ann answered. "She'll 
beat me if she catches hold o' me." 

"No, she won't," Miss Rose returned. "I '11 
see to that. Come here quickly." 

Tilly Ann scrambled down from her lofty perch, 
and came to the assistance of her teacher ; but so 
firmly was Miss Pinchimp imprisoned in the tub 
that they had to break the hoops before she could 
be released. She glared at Tilly Ann with a look 
that meant, " Wait till I get you alone ! " but she 
said not a word, marching in silence into the 

Rose lingered a moment. 

" Oh, Tilly Ann ! " she said sorrowfully, " how 
could you do so ? " 

" She was goingto lick me," Tilly Ann answered, 
defensively. " She 's always beatin' me and I 
ain't goin' to stand it no longer." 

Rose sighed, but she evidently thought that it 
was of no use to say more at this moment ; so she 
turned and followed Miss Pinchimp into the house, 
there to be entertained with a lively account of the 
child's wickedness and unmanageableness. 

Left to herself, Tilly Ann's first feeling was one 
of sorrow and shame that her teacher had seen 
her naughtiness ; then she burst into a laugh at 
the remembrance of Miss Pinchimp's struggle in 
the tub ; then, with a sudden light, it flashed upon 
her that here was her chance of escape. Her mis- 
tress was engaged with Miss May, and here was 
the tent of Signor Bernassio hardly a stone's throw 

away. She struck her worn little hands together, 
and then ran swiftly up to the attic where she slept. 
She had a few relics of her father and mother, 
which she had kept hidden ever since she came 
into Miss Pinchimp's power, and with these done 
up in a small bundle, she was soon speeding over 
the fields to the circus tents. Signor Bernassio 
was just finishing the unpacking of his belongings 
and getting them ready for the afternoon's per- 
formance when the canvas of his tent was lifted, 
and a child's head appeared between the ground 
and the cloth. The shoulders followed, and then 
the hands and arms. Having wriggled herself 
in thus far, Tilly Ann paused and looked at him. 

"Hullo!" said the sword-thrower, "who are 
you ? " 

'■ I 'm Tilly Ann, 'Nimble Dick's' little girl — 
' Mile. Petite!' " 

The sword-thrower stared at her in amazement. 
Then he took her by the shoulders and dragged 
her into the tent. 

" Where in the world did you come from ? 
Where is your father ? " he asked. 

" Dead," Tilly Ann answered, tears of grief and 
excitement springing to her eyes, " and Mother 's 
dead, and I wish I was dead, too." 

Signor Bernassio examined her with curious 

" Well," he said at length, " you don't look as 
if you 'd been where they lived very high. Sit 
down here and tell me about things." 

And so Tilly Ann told him her whole story from 
beginning to end. He laughed boisterously at her 
account of the events of the morning, but he said 
some extremely sharp words under his breath at 
other parts of the story. In his way the knife- 
thrower had been very fond of Nimble Dick, and he 
was ready enough to do a good turn to Nimble 
Dick's daughter, especially as it happened to suit 
his own convenience just then. 

" Well, Tilly Ann," he said, when her story was 
told, "you're all right now. I '11 take care of 
you ! " 

" Oh, thank you," she cried joyfully. " I '11 do 
anything you want, and work for you all the time, 
if I need n't go back." 

"Now, look here, little one," the knife-thrower 
went on, after a little more talk in which Tilly Ann 
had declared her intention of joining the circus once 
more, and taking up again her old life in the saw- 
dust ring, "if you've got the pluck there's no 
reason why you should n't begin to-day. The girl 
that performs with me is sick, and I must have 
somebody to take her place. Do you think you 'd 
have the grit to stand still and let me throw knives 
at you ? " 

" Oh, yes ! " Tilly Ann cried, joyfully. " I Ye 



seen you do it lots of times, and I know that you 
would n't hurt anybody for the world." 

"That's so," the Signor returned' approvingly. 
" You 're your father's own girl ; and I would n't 
hurt Nimble Dick's girl, least of all." 

" Oh, I '11 do it," Tilly Ann went on, clasping 
her hands in delight. " Shall I have a velvet 
dress with spangles on it ? " 

" You shall that," was the hearty response ; "but 
mind, you need n't do it if you don't want to, 
and it 's no use trying it if you 'd be scared and 
can't keep as still as a graven image." 


softly as he placed her with her back against the 
board into which the knives were to be thrown. 
"Now hold hard. I know my business, and you 
are as safe as if you were in your own bed." 

Tilly Ann answered him with a happy and fear- 
less smile. The excitement of it all, the joy of hav- 
ing escaped from Miss Pinchimp, and the gladness 
at getting back to the life of which she had dreamed 
and of which she had never seen the hard and cruel 
side, filled her with delight too great for words. 

Swish ! went the first knife from the careful 
and skillful hands of Signor Bernassio. It stuck 


But Tilly Ann was not frightened and she was 
sure she could keep still. The dress of the sick 
girl was tried, and with a very little changing fitted 
Tilly Ann as if it had been made for her. They 
had a little rehearsal beforehand, at which Signor 
Bernassio assured Tilly Ann she behaved like a 
real trump ; and that very afternoon, before the 
eyes of all Topton, Tilly Ann danced into the ring 
in all the glory of a pink dress, a jacket of cheap 
red velvet, much bespangled, and a proud con- 
sciousness of her position in which the greatest 
actress had nevet excelled her. 

At first she had only to hand Signor Bernassio 
the things he needed, and with the help of careful 
instructions beforehand, a hint now and then from 



gler, and her natural quickness she went 

through without a single mistake. 
" Well done, little chicken," the 

Signor said 

quivering into the board just at the end of one of 
Tilly Ann's fingers. She smiled at the thrower to 
show him that she did not mind, and stood as 
motionless asif shehadbeen carved in wood. Swish ! 
Swish ! went two more in quick succession, and 
the thrower nodded to show that he felt sure she 
would do her part perfectly. Swish ! Swish ! 
Swish ! the knives flashed toward her in a perfect 
shower, until they stood between her fingers, 
marked the width of her little thin body, and 
hedged her all about with their bright blades. 
Swish ! Swish ! until only her head and neck were 
free, and still Tilly Ann's eyes were as bright and 
fearless as ever, and not a nerve of her plucky lit- 
tle self knew a single quiver of fear. 

" Steady ! " she heard the Signor say under his 
breath, and then with a " Swish ! " that seemed a 
hundred times louder than all the rest, a knife 




landed so near her ear that, as it quivered, she felt 
the touch of its cold steel. She pressed her lips 
together, but she did not waver, and before she 
had time to think she felt the jar of the knife which 
struck the board beside her other ear. 

Thus far she had kept her eyes fixed on Signor 
Bernassio, but now by some unaccountable and 
unhappy impulse she was moved to glance away 
from him. Perhaps it was that the knives in 
their flight toward her head now seemed as if they 
were coming straight into her face. Just across the 
ring, not sitting in the seats like the others, but 
standing by the rope, she saw the town constable, 
Cy Cates. The threat of Miss Pinchimp, to send 
the constable after her if she ran away, rushed upon 
poor Tilly Ann. She forgot the knives, forgot 
everything but a desire to hide, and she turned 
her head. 

Swish! She heard the knife coming as shestarted, 
and with a horrible shock of despair she realized 
all. But she shut her eyes quickly and with an 
effort of the will, wonderful in a mere child, she 
held herself still. She felt a stinging scratch on 
her forehead and the spurt of warm blood. A cry 
went up from the people, and Signor Bernassio 
sprang forward. 

" He has killed her ! " somebody shouted; and 
the men started up from their seats. 

Then it was that the real greatness of the forlorn 
little waif showed itself, and that for a moment Tilly 
Ann was heroic. She forgot herself, forgot her 
fright, her wound, and thought only that Signor 
Bernassio would be blamed for her fault. Like a 
flash, a sense of having brought harm to her father's 
old friend who was kind to her came into her mind. 

" I 'm not hurt," she cried out at the top of her 
voice. "It was my own fault. Throw the rest, 
please. I won't go back to Miss Pinchimp's." 

The shrill tones, heightened by her anxiety to 
make everybody hear, rang through the tent above 
the growing noise. There was a hushed instant 
in which people took in the meaning of what she 
said, and then a roar of applause went up such as 
never before nor since shook a circus-tent in Top- 
ton. Signor Bernassio, with tears in his eyes, was 
hastily pulling out the knives that surrounded her, 
and then and there, before them all, he bent over 
and kissed her. 

" You are a trump," he said, in a voice somehow 
strange and hoarse. "You are vour father's own 

And once more the applause was so deafening 
that for the first time in her life Tilly Ann blushed 
hotly, although she could n't for her life have told 
why she did so. 

Of course there was no more knife-throwing 
that afternoon ; but before nightfall everybody in 

Topton, even to Miss Pinchimp herself, had heard 
the whole story. Tilly Ann became a heroine in 
an hour, and before it was time for the evening 
performance to begin, a pretty little basket-phaeton 
came driving down into the field where the circus- 
tents were pitched, and there was Rose May to see 
Tilly Ann. 

Tilly Ann came across the dimly-lighted tent to 
meet her with the feeling that it was a great while 
since she had seen Rose that morning. She was 
silent while Rose took her by the hands and kissed 
her, and then, as Miss May softly laid the tip of her 
gloved finger on the strip of plaster that covered 
the hurt on her forehead, Tilly Ann, overcome 
by the excitement of the day and by this tender- 
ness, broke into a sob which, with a strong effort, 
she strangled in its birth. 

" I won't go back to Miss Pinchimp," she said. 

"No," Rose said. " But will you go back to me r " 

For Rose had had a conversation with her father, 
and then she had stopped on her way to the circus 
to speak a moment with Miss Pinchimp, whom 
she had found fairly quivering with rage and excite- 

" Think what an awful thing for a child to do," 
Miss Pinchimp had said, " to stand there, in that 
shameless way, to have knives thrown at her ! And 
to call out my name in a circus tent, after all I have 
done for her. She shall never darken my doors 
again ! " 

"Very well, then, Miss Pinchimp," Miss May 
had answered, "of course you have no objection 
to my taking her home." 

" Goodness, no ! " the other had retorted. " If 
you will have the abandoned little wretch you 
are welcome to her." 

At first, even the prospect of living with Miss Rose 
was hardly sufficient to make Tilly Ann willing to 
give up her cherished plan of going with the circus ; 
but when Signor Bernassio added his voice, she was 
in the end persuaded. 

" It 's much the best, little one," he said, 
"though it ain't often I see a girl so plucky as 
you, and you 'd make your way ; but with all I 've 
seen of the life, it would n't be doing the square 
thing by Nimble Dick, if I was to tell his girl any- 
thing but to keep out of it. You ain't seen the 
rough side of it. but you would soon enough ; and 
I tell you to stay with the lady, much as I hate to 
give you up." 

And so at last Tilly Ann yielded, and from 
that day she began a new life, happy and well 
cared for; — although to the end of her life Miss 
Pinchimp, whenever she can find anybody to 
listen, will delight in painting in blackest colors 
what she always speaks of as "the awful thing 
that Tilly Ann did." 

J^O-MS^Y ""feHW.tO^&l 







By Rossiter Johnson. 

No, not Chinese — not Japanese — not Burmese, 
nor Fiji, nor Crim-Tartar, nor Malagasy. Just 
plain American. Of course that was not her bap- 
tismal name. She came by it in a very odd way. 
When her attention was first called to the art of 
rhyming, she was deeply interested in it, and, like 
everybody else, thought she would like to do it her- 
self. After thinking about it for a while, she said : 
" Papa, is to-bo a rhyme ? " Being answered that 
it was, and assured that it was a perfect one in 
every respect, she seemed satisfied that she had 
now provided herself with every requisite for 
poetry. Thereafter she would tell a long story, 
all in plain prose, and suddenly end it by saying, 
"To-bo! " She thought that this conclusion, by 
some mysterious reflex influence, cast a glamour of 
poesy and the music of rhyme over the entire pro- 
duction. Fairy story, wild-beast story, domestic 
story — no matter what — " To-bo " for an ending 
turned it all into rhyme. 

However, she had a good ear for rhythm, as 
was manifested very early. She was scarcely three 
years old when, being pleased — as children are 
wont to be — with the squeak of her new shoes as 
she walked on the tiling of the front hall, she ex- 
pressed her delight to her mother in these words, 
" My feet made music in the marble hall," which 
is a rhythmically perfect heroic line. 

After she had learned to write, being no longer 
dependent on a private secretary, her muse became 
more prolific. Here is a moral reflection that she 
scrawled on the back of a manuscript. I give it 
verbatim : 

" Lifes everlastin trubbels lead to thoughs that 
takes hour atenshon to its self." 

I suppose when she uttered that note she had 
about as much of the solid specie of thought be- 
hind it as proverbial philosophers usually have. 

Here is a complete poem, on the birds in spring : 

" Now it is spring ! 
Do you hear the birds sing, 
And see them fly 
Up in the sky ? 

" Now it is spring ! 
The birds on the wing 
From the south lake their flight. 
Ah, beautiful sight! 

"Now it is spring ! 
To think they should know 
Just when they should go, 
Live happy and sing! " 

Her early poems, like those of some famous 
writers, include many that have simply a girl's 
name for title. One of these, which describes a 
character called Madie, has a refrain, " Ever she." 
Here is a single stanza : 

" Madie always thought life lovely, 
For she lived in tranquil troubly — 
Ever she." 

She had a passion for accuracy, and when she 
could not command the expression for an idea, 
would quickly make one. Thus she was overheard 
one day saying to a little playmate who had put 
a sand-pie into the oven and instantly taken it out 
again, declaring it was done, "You can't do it so. 
It couldn't bake in just a. now." And once when 
she was out riding with her parents, and for the 
first time saw a beautiful green hedge, she pointed 
toward it with her chubby finger and inquired, 
" Papa, in place of a fence, what? " 

She spent a summer in the country with a family 
that had three dogs in which she was very much 
interested. One day when one of the dogs w : as amus- 
ing itself by turning over and tossing up a box-tur- 
tle, she ran around to the kitchen and got a bone. 
This she threw to the dog, and as soon as he was 
engaged with that, she snatched up the turtle and 
ran into the house. She explained that she knew 
the dog could not injure the turtle, but she should 
think it would " hurt the turtle's feelings to be 
tossed around in that way." 

Her father used to say to her, as an inducement 
to good behavior, " If you are a good girl all this 
month, I will let you be so many years old on your 
next birthday." This was a very solemn consid- 
eration, and always had an immediate effect, till 
one day she answered, as a light suddenly burst 
upon her, " Why, Papa, you can't stop me from 
being four years old in January ! You can't make 
me four years old, and you can't stop me J " She 
used to imagine not only that she must grow older, 
but that her mother must grow younger, and 
would say confidentially, "Mamma, when I grow 
big and you grow little, we '11 do " thus and so. 


60 ■ 

Like all children, she was fond of drawing pic- 
tures, and she seldom made one without some sort 
of storv attached to it. Here is one: 


This is her explanation of it (I put on the let- 
ters to make it intelligible) : " This a door. This, 
[a] is a pretend keyhole ; and this, [b] is the truly 
keyhole. When the burglars come, they are fool- 
ing around the pretend keyhole, and can't get in, 
and all the while the people inside are lying awake 
and laughing at them. These [c] are the airs 
those people put on because they had that kind 
of door." 

Here is a picture that tells its own story : 


She had a penchant for definitions, and occa- 
sionally made a good one. Being asked what she 
understood by " politeness," she answered, " I 
suppose it means to be good and graceful." After- 
ward, when the family removed to a house that 
stood at the top of a hill on a great turnpike, where 
there was much heavy teaming, she said, " I do 
like to live here ; everybody is so polite. Even 
the horses bow to me as they come up the hill." 
This idea of politeness appeared to be coupled 

with a natural sense of hospitality. Once when 
preparing for Santa Claus, she said, " I should 
think he must be tired, going so far and climbing 
up and down so many chimneys. I will set a chair 
for him by the stockings, so that he can rest." On 
further reflection, she said he might be hungry 
also. That day some crackers in the form of let- 
ters had been given her, and selecting those that 
would spell SANTA CLAUS, she placed them 
where he could see they were intended for him. 
Great was the delight of little To-bo in the morn- 
ing on finding that about half of them were miss- 
ing. Of course Santa Claus had eaten them ; the 
crumbs on the carpet proved it. That Christmas 
Eve she was asked, " Suppose that Santa Claus 
should forget to come here, and you should not 
get any of the things that you have been wishing 
for, what would you do?" "Why, then," said 
she, " I '11 just settle down and be happy with 
what I have." One other instance of her sense of 
politeness is amusing. Her parents were about to 
embark for Europe, and her aunt, in closing the 
last letter they would receive before sailing, asked 
what she should tell them for To-bo. " Tell them, 
my love. And tell them, when they bring the 
Paris dolly 1 shall thank them very much. And 
tell them : my dear friends, good-bye ! " A year 
later she was not so complacent about ventures 
on the water, for she had begun to listen to the 
reading of newspapers, and was interested in tales 
of shipwrecks. Going on board a steamer for a 
short trip, she was anxious to know what were the 
relative chances of sinking and of being carried in 
safety, and asked, "Papa, which is the most, the 
times that we stay up, or the times we go down?" 
She soon got the better of her fears, however, and 
on being taken to the engine-room became very 
much interested in the machinery. Said she, "It 
is like the roaring of many bears." 

She was not always fortunate in her use of large 
words. One day, discussing names, she said : " I 
think it is too bad that little children have to have 
names they don't like, and can't ever get rid of 
them. If I had a little girl, I 'd just give her some 
name like Permanent Sarah, till she was old 
enough to choose her own name." She meant, 
Temporary Sarah. 

Her first dim conception of the possibility of a 
pun showed itself one day when she heard the 
cook ordered to prepare some cocoa for breakfast. 
"The c-o-o-k will make the c-o-k-o — those are 
the same word." After the nature of a pun had 
been explained to her, she used to give out words 
for punning, as they are given out for spelling. 
" Papa, make a pun on a hotel " — which word she 
always pronounced "hootel." " Mamma, make a 
pun on a thunder-storm," and so on. She was not 



wanting, however, in ideas more essentially witty. 
Once when she sat in the barber's chair, he kept 
saying, while he was cutting her bang, "Now 
keep your eyes shut, Miss." " Be sure to keep 
your eyes shut. " After a time, the scissors were 
at work on the hair at the side, when she remarked 
with much gravity, "Now, I suppose, I ought to 
keep my ear shut." 

After listening to a famous story, little To-bo 
took a pen and made a graphic representation of 
her idea of the hero as he must have appeared in 
the last year of his exile. Here it is : 

she, " I wish you would stay with me, because I 
am so wakerous, and the shadows on the wall are 
so scaresome." 

One Sunday evening, when the cook had gone 
away, she asked and received permission to try her 
hand at getting the supper all alone. After a pro- 
longed struggle in the kitchen and dining-room, 
she appeared in the library, wrote a line, placed 
something under a box on the table, and went back 
again. Going to the table, her parents found on 
the box a scrap of paper inscribed thus, " Warent 
aptite and take tickets." Under the box were two 
tickets like this : 

One night, after she had been in bed for some 
time, she sent for her mother. "Mamma," said 

Armed with these ingenious cards of admission 
they presented themselves with promptness at the 
door of the dining-room, where the tickets were 
duly demanded. When they were seated at the 
table, the explanation was given, to this effect: 
Everything in the kitchen had gone wrong. The 
toast was burned, and somehow had managed to 
get cold, besides ; the tea did n't taste like tea ; and 
there was a general air of failure over the whole 
supper. Little To-bo felt like sitting down and 
crying, and probably would have done so, but sud- 
denly she remembered she had heard it said that 
a person with an appetite could eat anything. So 
she devised the plan of having the appetites war- 
ranted. Dear little To-bo ! when the whole world 
turns sour and the feast of life threatens to be a 
dismal failure, you and such as you are the "aptite 
tickets" that give a zest and a charm beyond the 
power of any caterer. It is because you are on 
board that " the times we stay up" are more than 
" the times we go down." 

By William H. Hayne. 

Each dewdrop hanging on the grass 
Must be a fairy looking-glass, 
Wherein the proud, delighted elves 
See clear reflections of themselves, 
And from rude mortal eyes withdrawn, 
Make their gay toilets on the lawn. 

By Anna Botsford Gomstock. 


°3>o * 

of sumac with 
its drum-major 

plumes, abough 
of elder bend- 
ing undera load 
of itsdark-hued 
berries, a rasp- 
berry bramble, 
low trailing and 
graceful ; these were my trophies from Woodland, 

not more than one-fourth of an inch long, 
flitting about among these branches, her 
body metallic blue, and with four gauzy wings 
flashing in the sunlight. Had you noted 
her then, you would have thought her created 
only for the enjoyment of a bright spring 
day. Little would you have dreamed of the 
strength of purpose and the power of endur- 
ance bound up in that wee body. You per- 
haps would have scarcely detected that she 
belonged to a family noted for their per- 
severance and industry. Yet, in spite of 
her diminutive size and metallic color, she 
is as truly a bee as the clumsiest bumble- 
bee that ever hummed in the clover. She 
belongs especially, however, to the group 
of carpenter-bees ; and she has a pretty 
scientific name, Ceratina dupla, that seems 
quite in keeping with her dainty appearance. 
However, very little cares she by what 
Latin name mortal man has chosen to call 
her, for weightier responsibilities rest upon 
her active mind this bright May morning, 
so she hunts about until she finds some 
broken twig of elder or of sumac which permits 
her to come into direct contact with the pitli of 
the plant. Then our little heroine, with the aid 
of her mandibles, or jaws, goes to work to ex- 
cavate a tunnel in the branch by removing the 
pith mouthful by mouthful. Very carefully is the 
work done, the pith being neatly cut so that the 
walls of the tunnel are left straight and smooth. 
To bring her undertaking within our comprehen- 
sion we might compare her to a man who should 

one sunny October afternoon; and to the uninitiated attempt to dig a well three or four feet wide and 
they doubtless would seem but random and com- 
monplace mementos of an autumnal ramble. But 
listen, and I will tell you how such branches, 
seemingly uninteresting and aimlessly gathered, 
have been the scenes of great toil, brave deeds, 
faithful, loving devotion, and also, alas! of treach- 
ery and tragedy. I will relate to you the history 
revealed by these broken boughs ; a history to 
discover which has required many patient hours 
and much close watching by eyes that loved the 

One sunshiny morning last May, had you been 
watching, you might have seen a gay little insect, 

two hundred feet deep, with no tools but his hands 
with which to remove the earth. 

The tunnel of the Ceratina is about one-eighth 
of an inch in diameter, and often as much as eight 
or ten inches in depth. But when our little bee is 
through excavating her tunnel, and has finished it 
with all the nicety of her own fine sense of the fit- 
ness of things, she has really but begun her sum- 
mer's work. However, her next task combines 
pleasure with duty, for it takes her into the fields 
to gather pollen from the flowers. This she carries 
by loading it upon her hind legs, which are fur- 
nished with long hairs for holding it in place. But 





it requires a great many trips back and forth before 
she has packed the bottom of the nest with pollen 
to the depth of a quarter of an inch. This done, 
she deposits upon it a tiny white egg, and above 
builds a partition by gluing together bits of pith 
and other suitable material with a glue which she 
always keeps on hand (or rather in mouth) for the 
purpose. This partition is firmly fastened to the 
sides of the tunnel and is about one-tenth of an 
inch in thickness ; it serves as a roof for the first 
cell, and as a floor for the next. Then the process 
is repeated ; she gathers more pollen, lays another 
egg, builds another partition, and so on, until the 
tunnel is filled to within an inch or two of the 
opening; the last egg is thus necessarily deposited 
many days after the first one. 

So you see this matron has her family in a sort of 
apartment-house, each in- 
dividual occupying one 
entire flat. Then there 
comes a rest for the indus- 
trious little mother ; for 
her next duty is to remain 
quiet and await future de- 
velopments. But her fi- 
delity is unfailing ; the 
inch or two of space left 
at the top of the tunnel 
serves as a vestibule to her 
dwelling, and there she 
waits and watches over her 

While she is guarding 
the door let us take a peep 
into the first cell and see 
what is taking place there ; 
for what we find true of one 
cell will prove equally true 
of all the others. The egg 
soon hatches out a minute, 
white, footless worm or 
larva -which falls to work 
immediately, eating with 
all its might the pollen 
provided by its careful 
mamma. On this food it 
thrives and grows, until it 
is a quarter of an inch long ; 
by this time, usually, it 

has consumed all the pollen in the cell; however, 
the mother-bee's instinct docs not seem to be infal- 
lible in this particular, for sometimes she provides 
more food than her child needs. After the larva 
has thus reached its full growth, it becomes rigid 
and turns darker in color, and queer-looking seams 
and excrescences appear upon it ; these are the 
cases in which its legs and wings are developing. 

In short, it becomes a pupa. After remaining thus 
for some time the pupa-skin bursts open, and a full- 
fledged bee appears, in size, color, and in every 
respect resembling its mother; for, you know, bees 
never grow after they have their legs and wings. 
Meanwhile, the patient mother, who has not 
shared our privilege of peeping into the cells, 
knows nothing of what has happened, unless per- 
chance she remembers her own " larvahood." Her 
experience is a novel one ; her first-born is the 
last one of the brood that she beholds. You see, 
patience is taught to these creatures, as an early 
lesson ; for, of course, the egg first laid is the ear- 
liest to hatch and soonest reaches maturity. So 
the first experience of the eldest of a Ceratina 
brood is to wait until its youngest brothers and 
sisters have reached their adult form. We may 




imagine that this idle waiting is rather hard work 
for a little creature with brand-new wings which 
it is longing to spread in the sunshine. 

The next lesson that our Ceratina must learn is 
industry. For when the youngest of the brood 
has reached maturity, each one in the nest begins 
to work its way up and outward by tearing down 
the partition above it and pushing the particles of 




waste material down toward the bottom of the 
nest. This arrangement is a comfortable one for 
the youngest, who has only one partition between 
it and its mother, but is not nearly so nice for the 
eldest, who has had not only the longest time to 
wait, but has now the most work to do : for he must 
push his way up through the debris of all the par- 
titions above him. It reveals a funny sight to open 
a Ceratina nest after the material of the partitions 
has been stowed away in the bottom of the tunnel. 
There are all the bees, — sometimes as many as 
fourteen, — packed in as close as possible, each 
with its head toward the opening, and braced 
against the "heels," so to speak, of his next 
youngest brother ; for nature teaches them to face 
toward the door that leads out into the world. 
Finally, the sentinel mother, having become 
satisfied that all are ready, leads the way and 
chaperons her children in their first flight out into 
the sunshine. 

Later, the remains of the partitions are removed 
from the nest, which is thus made ready for an- 
other brood. Sometimes the whole grown-up 
family are found in nests thus cleaned, which would 
indicate that the young bees dutifully lend their 
mother a helping mandible in house-cleaning and 
making the home attractive. And they doubtless 
find it pleasant to linger about the old homestead 
and make it their abiding place until they feel 
capable of setting up establishments of their own. 
This is certainly true of the fall brood ; these chil- 
dren of the autumn, when the days become cool, 
crawl into the clean nest, head downward, one 
after another, and tuck themselves in, we might 
say, as cosy as cosy can be, and just go to sleep, 
and stay asleep, until the bright May sunshine 
calls to them through the open door and tells them 
to wake up and go to work. We found one family 
of eight thus housed for the winter; and the bee 
next the door was the faithful mother, — we recog- 
nized her because her wings were frayed and worn 
by her many flights and severe toil. I have often 
wondered if this long winter's sleep were not bright- 
ened by dreams of sun and flowers. How do we 
know that this is not a bee's way of spending the 
winter in Florida ? 

Thus we have learned the main facts in the life 
of our little Ceratina supposing that her life is a 
fortunate one from egg-hood to motherhood. But 
in our studies of these hidden homes we find rec- 
ords of wars and tragedies, and thus learn that our 
tiny friend has many enemies always watching for 
an opportunity to injure her. Among these foes 
are some of her own lazy relatives, first and second 
cousins, who certainly ought to have better man- 
ners and morals. Other species of bees, and some 

wasps which build their nests in the hollow stalks 
of plants, take advantage of the tunnel excavated 
by the Ceratina, drive her away before her nest is 
finished, and take possession of her home. We 
may safely believe that the plucky little bee would 
not submit to such an outrage without vigorous re- 
monstrance ; and doubtless there are duels fought 
which equal in bravery and fierceness any that we 
read about in stories of the Middle Ages. 

There are still other enemies of the Ceratina, too 
cowardly to achieve their objects by a fair fight. 
One of these, a light and airy insect, with a scimi- 
tar-shaped body, belongs to the Ichncumonidce, a 
family noted for deceitfulness and immoral con- 
duct, to say nothing of bloodthirstiness. This de- 
signing creature loiters about and watches the 
Ceratina building her nest. When the nest builder 
has filled a cell with pollen and deposited an 
egg, and has departed to seek material for a par- 
tition, the ichneumon sneaks slyly in and lays one 
of its eggs in the cell, too ; so, when the bee comes 
back, she unconsciously walls in with her child its 
deadliest foe. When the young bee has nearly 
attained full size, the ichneumon egg hatches into 
a voracious little grub, which evidently looks upon 
the fat bee-larva as a hungry child might look upon 
a choice beefsteak. It at once falls to eating the 
helpless creature, which conveniently proves to be 
sufficient food to nourish the little interloper until 
the latter has completed its growth. When suf- 
ficiently grown, the young ichneumon spins a beau- 
tiful silken cocoon about itself, in the most innocent 
manner, and changes to a pupa. In this state it 
waits until the bees in the tunnel above it have 
matured and departed, and then issues forth a 
fully developed ichneumon, and flies into the world 
to play its hereditary tricks upon any unwary insect 
it may chance to meet. We found one of these 
ichneumon cocoons in the middle cell of a Cera- 
tina nest. Only one of the mature bees was found 
in the tunnel below the cocoon, and it had its head 
pointed downward ; thus telling, as plainly as words 
could have told, that, disgusted with the creature 
it found obstructing its upward pathway, it had 
turned about with a firm intention to dig out by way 
of China, or die in the attempt ! And, undoubt- 
edly, many which escape being eaten by the para- 
site, die thus from imprisonment. 

This completes the record of what I know of the 
life-history of this little carpenter-bee. I hope, 
however, that the boy and girl naturalists who read 
this history will gather the dry twigs of elder and 
of sumac at different seasons of the year, and then, 
by patiently studying them, they may be able to 
supply for themselves many interesting particulars 
which I have vet to learn. 





By Benjamin- Webster. 

The Sergeant was home 
from Tonquin — so said all the 
village — and was staying at 
the Inn, " too proud to speak 
to any one " — so added those 
who envied him the attention 
excited by his gorgeous uni- 

But Jules and Gaston, Jean 
and Emil, said bluntly that 
they knew better, and to show 
their faith in their old comrade 
invited him to take soup with 
them as he used to do before 
he went into the army. 

Behold, then, the five friends 
around the table. What have 
they to talk of after their long 
separation ? We will listen. 

The Sergeant is speaking : 

" Indeed, I hardly know 
how one lives at all in those 
tropics. Without boasting, I 
myself bear things as well as 
most of my neighbors, but — 
I confess it, my friends, I have 
been frightened by the tropics. 
Think of it, my boys, a French 
officer afraid of the weather !" 

"Of the weather?" asked 

" I can not see that !" said 

"It is no more than the 
truth," resumed the Sergeant. 
"In Tonquin we have thunder 
and lightning — for I can not 
otherwise name them — but 
not such as come to these vil- 
lages : little groans of thunder 
here, and sparks of lightning 
there — but thunderstorms to 
terrify a bishop ! " 

" How so?" asked Gaston, 

The Sergeant had enjoyed 
his soup and truly his tongue 
talked of itself. 

" In Tonquin," said he, rising to his feet — for so 
one gestures more easily, "the lightest of our 
thunder cracks cannon-balls in two ; and one peal 
follows another so fast that there is never but one 

— which, however, lasts as long as the storm." 
"Strange enough," said Jules, with his mouth 

open, his spoon in the air. 

"And the lightning ? " asked Jean, quickly. 

"The lightning?" repeated the Sergeant, 
" much the same sort. It is never seen. All the 
world stays indoors and puts on green spectacles 

— one or two pairs ! " 

" A curious custom!" remarked Emil, looking 
sidewise at the veteran. 

" As you say — curious indeed," replied the Ser- 
geant, smiling. "You would enjoy the oddity 
of it, I have little doubt. But there is something 
more worthy of notice. There is the rain. In 
Tonquin the rain falls so fast that it does n't reach 
the ground ! " 

" But, Sergeant," cried Gaston, rising to protest, 
" your last statement is hardly credible ! " 

"Oh, you demand an explanation," said the 
Sergeant with some warmth, and pounding the 
table with his stiff fingers, " it is because the rain- 
drops fall so fast they are dried up by the friction 
of the air — that is, of course, all but a little. I do 
not mean to say that none of the water falls to the 
ground — that would be unreasonable." 

" So I thought," said Gaston, nodding his head 

" You were right, Gaston," said the Sergeant, 
grandly. " Always tell me if you find my stories 
incredible. I am a little irritable, but not proud. 
And I know (since I, too, lived in this little village 
once — so long ago!) how seldom you hear such 
adventures ! " 

" My word, but I have heard things as strange ! " 
said Gaston, dryly. 

" Then my stories do not surprise you ? " asked 
the soldier, with some disappointment. 

" Why should they? " replied Gaston. " I have 
never been in Tonquin. I have heard of queerer 
things, however ; yes, and in this very town ! " 

" Such as ?" said the Sergeant, looking hard 

at the other and twisting his moustache ends into 
two needle-points. 

" Some people would say your Tonquin storms 




were not large," Gaston said, frankly. "But I am 
not so foolish. Freely I admit that such storms 
are rare in this village. Bat I do contend that we 
have here the smallest storms that can well be." 
The Sergeant moved uneasily on his four-legged 
stool, and gazed at 
Gaston with his eye- 
lids half closed. 

"Did you never 
hear of them ? " said 
Gaston, seeming to 
be much surprised. 
" Never," said 
the Sergeant, in a 
peculiar voice. 

"It is said that 
once at the Inn, 
where you are stay- 
ing, a man who had 
been a sailor, — I 
think it was a sailor, 
— came home from 
Algeria, and told of 
many wonderful ex- 
periences. Sea-ser- 
pents, land-slides, 
unicorns, rocs' eggs, 
and mermaids, — 
such was his stock 
in trade. Well, one morning that soldier — " 
" Sailor!" said the Sergeant, frowning. 
" Sailor, of course, — that sailor came to break- 
fast telling of a terrible storm, a thunderstorm — a 
true Tonquin storm, if you will permit me, Ser- 
geant." The Sergeant bowed, still frowning. 
"But, strangely enough," Gaston went on, "no 
one else had seen any signs of a storm, whatever. 
It had seemed to every one else a bright moon- 
light night ! Now I call that worthy of remark ! " 
" Truly so," said the Sergeant, uneasily. 
"And, strangely enough," went on the villager, 
"there is a legend that such storms are the work 
of goblins, who thus punish tellers of big stories, 
as. it seems, this sailor must have been !" 

The Sergeant made no comment, but drummed 
a quickstep upon the table, whistling a noiseless 
fife accompaniment. 

Emil, Jules, and Jean had been listening open- 
mouthed and ransacking their brains to find some 
trace of this wonderful legend. But no one of them 
could recall it, and, while they were collecting 
their wits to question Gaston, the Sergeant asked: 
" Where was it you said this sailor lodged ? " 
" At your Inn, in the front room on the left — 
your room, by the way, Sergeant, is it not ?" 

" That is where they have put me," replied the 
veteran. Then rising, he shook hands all round, 

Vol. XVI. — 39 

saying, "Good-night, my lads, good-night. Re- 
markable place, the tropics." 

" Remarkable, indeed !" they answered. 

No sooner was their guest out of sight than the 
others turned to Gaston, who was laughing to him- 
self at their wondering faces. 

After a short explanation, during which the four 
heads were very close together, Jules went in one 
direction for a dark-lantern, Gaston set forth in an- 
other to borrow a drum, Jean went in a third for the 
big watering-pot, while Emil was to fill a basket with 
sand and gravel. When they came back, later in 
the evening, each had succeeded in his errand. 

" We will give the Sergeant a Goblin Thunder- 
storm," Gaston said, with a smile. Then all four 
laughed aloud. They were sharp fellows, and 
they comprehended his plan. 

Although the moon shone brightly that night, 
the conspirators set forth for the Inn, walking in a 
single file, and grinning with anticipation. 

About midnight they were in front of the window 
of the "front room on the left." Emil threw the 
sand against the panes, Gaston beat a terrible roll 
upon the drum, and Jules flashed the light of his 
lantern through the window, while Jean spattered 
water upon the glass. 

The Sergeant arose, came to the window and 
gazed curiously out. Apparently there was bright 
moonlight and a 
cloudless sky; but 
he had seen the 
lightning, heard 
the thunder, and 
surely those were 
dropsof rain upon 
the panes of the 

The four mis- 
chief-makers had 
crouched closely 
against the wall, 
and with diffi- 
culty restrained 
themselves from 
noisy mirth. 

The steps re- 
treated from the 

After waiting a 
moment, another 
" Goblin Storm " 
was created, and 
brought the puzzled man again to the window; but 
so closely flattened against the Inn were the four 
friends that there was no clue to the mystery, and 
the Sergeant once more retired, too sleepy to make 
any further investigation that night. 





A third repetition of their trick brought their 

victim running to the door — as they had expected. 

Being ready for him, Jean deluged the poor 

Sergeant with 
water, Gaston 
deafened him 
with the drum, 
Jules blinded 
his eyes with the 
lantern, while 
Emil pelted him 
with the gravel, 
and he stagger- 
ed back indoors 
with his hands 
over his eyes 
and his breath 
almost gone. 

Next day the 
Sergeant asked 
the landlord at 
breakfast - time 
whether the ter- 
rible storm had 
not kept him 


stared at him in silence for a moment, and then said: 

'" Sergeant, are you crazy? " 

''Landlord, what do you mean?" replied the 
soldier with much dignity, rising to his feet. 

"It was a calm, bright moonlight night, as 
any one will tell you. Why do you ask such a 
foolish question? — To make me ridiculous?" 

"It was but a poor 
joke, was n't it, mine 
host?" said the Ser- 
geant, with a twist 
at his big mustaches 
while his cheeks grew 
very red. " Pray say 
nothing about it, and 
I will promise not to 
repeat so ill-timed 
a pleasantry," and 
away he marched, 
very erect and very 
proud indeed. 

Strangely enough, 
not only did the Ser- 
geant seek no explana- 
tion of his remarkable 
experience at the Inn, 
but even his won- 
derful adventures in 
Tonquin were no 
more recalled. 

As for Gaston, Jules, Emil, and Jean, they never 
met together without chuckling and poking one 
another, and this they continued to do until next 



By Cornelia Atwood Pratt. 

I wrote some bedtime verses once, 
To send to Baby Nan, 
When she was West and I was East. 
This is the way they ran : 

' How did they get there ? Oh, I threw 
A score or so in air, 
And some were caught as they flew by 
Your tangled, silky hair.' 

' Good-night, dear eyes that close to-night 
A thousand miles away ; 
My kisses lie upon your lids 
To guard them till the day. 

" Good-night to two round rosy cheeks, 
To dimples, curls, and chin, 
I send a kiss for every one 
A kiss can nestle in." 

What do you think that baby said? — 
A captious critic, she, — 
Mamma, I fink she 's said good-night 
To ev'ryfin' but me.'" 


By David Ker. 

On the bank of an African river, upon a tiny 
clearing which — scooped out of the vast black 
forest that bristled along both shores as far as the 
eye can reach — betokened the neighborhood of a 
native village, a man was standing alone, taking 
rapid notes in a small book, while behind him lay 
moored along the water's edge a fleet of canoes, 
crowded with the dark-brown or black faces of 
Arabs and negroes, whose crooked swords and 
long ivory-stocked guns glittered in the morning 

The solitary figure on the bank seemed to be 
the only white man of the whole party, and even 
he, lean and ragged as he was, with his face 
burned almost black by the sun, and a matted 
mane of grayish-black hair and beard hanging 
loosely around it, seemed quite as savage as any 
of his followers. But, small and thin though he 
was, with plain, almost coarse, features, and a dress 
of which any respectable scarecrow would have been 
ashamed, he had in his sunken eyes that look of 
power and command which stamps the born leader 
of men. And such, indeed, he was, for this man 
was no other than Henry Morton Stanley. 

So engrossed was Stanley with the notes which 
he was making, that he never saw the black 
scowling face and fierce eyes which peered out at 
him suddenly from the encircling thicket. Pres- 
ently another head appeared, and another, and 
another still ; and then the matted boughs shook 
and parted, and several men stole forth, with long 
spears in their hands. 

But Stanley's quick ear had caught the rustle 
of the leaves, and, taking several strings of beads 
from his pouch, he advanced to meet them, utter- 
ing the long, shrill, bleat-like salutation of the 
country, " Sen-nen-neh ! " (peace.) 

But there was little sign of peace among the 
advancing savages, who darted threatening looks 
at him, and kept muttering angrily among them- 
selves. Then a huge scarred warrior, who seemed 
to be their chief, said, with a flourish of his spear: 

" If the white man wishes peace, why does he 
try to bewitch us ? " 

" How have I tried to bewitch you ? " asked 
Stanley in amazement. " I come as your guest, 
not as your enemy. You all see that my men 
have laid down their guns and swords, and are 
waiting to be friends with you." 

* This story is perfectly true, and is here gn 

"The stranger's words are not straight !" an- 
swered the savage, fiercely. " Did we not see him 
making spells of witchcraft against us, and draw- 
ing them on the magic charm that he carries with 
him?" A sudden light flashed upon Stanley — 
it was his note-book that had offended them ! "If 
the white chief means fairly by us, let him throw 
his magic work into yonder fire, and then he shall 
be our brother, and shall eat with us ; but if not, 
our spears shall reach his heart ! " 

A ferocious growl from the rest, and a significant 
brandishing of spears and bows, added fresh point 
to this last remark. 

For one moment the bold traveler stood aghast. 
To destroy his valuable notes, gathered with so 
much toil and suffering, would be to fling away 
the whole fruit of his weary and perilous journey ! 
Yet, to refuse might cost his life and the lives of all 
his men, for the savages were evidently in earnest, 
and all the thickets around him were already 
swarming with fierce faces and leveled weapons. 
What was to be done? 

All at once a bright idea came to him. In his 
pouch lay a small pocket Shakspere (the companion 
of all his wanderings), which was sufficiently like 
the objectionable note-book to have deceived a 
keener observer than an African savage. Quick 
as thought he drew it forth, and held it up so that 
every one could see it. 

" Is this the charm that my brothers wish me to 
burn ? " he asked, loud enough to be heard by all 

" It is ! it is ! " roared a hundred voices at once, 
while half a dozen bony, black hands were out- 
stretched from the front rank of the crowd as if to 
clutch the formidable "witch-book." 

" And if I burn it," said Stanley, " will you be 
friends with me, and give food to my men ? " 

" We will," chorused the black spearmen. 

"Behold, then!" cried the great leader, and 
with one jerk of his hand he flung the Shakspere 
into the fire beside him. In a moment it flamed 
up, shriveled away, and was gone ! 

Then broke forth a yell of delight from the 
superstitious savages, as they saw the dreaded 
"magic" vanish into smoke. A score of big, 
bare-limbed warriors, all smeared with paint and 
grease, rushed forward to overwhelm their "white 
brother" with sticky embraces, while others brought 

en almost as Stanley himself told it. — D. K. 



forward armfuls of fruit, fish, and potato-like cas- explorer missed the book that had been his com- 

sava bread. Stanley's hungry men ate their fill, panion in so many perils and sufferings. But the 

and all went as merrily as a picnic. precious notes were saved, and the narrative which 

Many a night after, while struggling wearily they formed has since been read and applauded 

along the windings of the unknown river, the great from one side of the world to the other. 


*fTh e Merchants Little, 


fi» j (Architect's 
iKLittlc Boy. 

: LjUfc Bw. 

Tif Inventor's Little Bov.l bsl *^ 

Th e TrW*WV,L,iltle Boy. 
TK Farma-'s Little Boy: j IP ™ 

< #j&> Th« T-to* Little fe, ' Wliee| ,, . M . L . K ;; [ TR TWM, Little Boy. 

By Annie Howells Frechette. 

" I have been thinking," said Grandpapa, as he 
slowly clicked together the bows of the spectacles 
which he held in his hand, "that a dog would 
be a great entertainment to the children, and a 
protection as well. I don't think they would ever 
get lost again if they had a good, trusty dog to 
follow them about." 

" Oh, there is no doubt that a dog would be a 
perfect joy to them," replied Mamma, at whom he 
had looked. " But would n't a dog be a great 
trouble to you ? " 

" No, — no very great trouble, and besides, even 
if he were, I an ant the children to enjoy their visit 
to fullness. I '11 speak to Randolph and have 
him hunt up a dog for me." 

" Why no, Father, don't do that ; there is Joey 
Vale, — if any one in Virginia can find you just what 
you want, Joey can. Randolph would be sure to 
bring some starved hound (what Sister calls a scanty 
dog), with a view to borrowing it to ' hunt ol' har' ' 
with," said Aunt Sie. 

" Joey Vale's collie has had pups lately, we might 
get one and train it," remarked Aunt Lisha. She 
hated dogs, but loved her small relatives to that 
degree that she was ready to love their dog, if so 
doing would add to their happiness. 

" Yes, I suppose Joey would be the right man 
to call upon, — can you girls manage to see him?" 

" I might take the children and go over to-mor- 
row," assented Aunt Sie, who never found herself 
at a loss to " manage " to give others pleasure. 

So it was settled. 

" The children," who were asleep up stairs, were 
two little people who had come from their Northern 
home to spend several months with their grand- 
father on a lovely old farm in Virginia. In the few 
weeks which had already passed they had succeeded 
in getting themselves lost for a whole day, with a 
pet calf, named Juno, as their companion. This ad- 
venture had thrown the household into a state of 
alarm which gave symptoms of becoming chronic, 
and which made a sense of security unknown. 

A happier little couple it would have been hard 
to find anywhere — full of imaginings and theories 
concerning the wonders of country life, and always 
ready to leap from small facts to broad conclusions. 
They had names, but little use was made of these, 
as their circle usually adopted those they found for 
each other, and they were still generally spoken of 

as Sister and Brother. Sister had enjoyed the good 
things of this life a year and a half longer than 
Brother, and was, in consequence, unquestioningly 
accepted by him as an authority on most subjects, 
though she kindly allowed him to know the most 
about blacksmithing, coopering, and similar indus- 
tries which they had investigated in the neigh- 

Each morning was a joyful awakening to them, 
but the morning which followed the foregoing 
conversation was happy beyond any that had ever 
dawned. At an early hour, Aunt Sie — dear Aunt 
Sie, who made even a dull day bright — came into 
their room just as they were waking. But she 
affected to think them still asleep, and began at 
once talking to Mamma : 

"I 'd like to go over to Mrs. Vale's this morn- 
ing, if I had some one to drive Charley for me. 
But the boys are busy in the corn-fields, and really 
I don't feel like going alone with that frisky steed. 
I wonder if I could persuade one of the children — 
or both- — to go with me. I 'd feel perfectly safe 
if I had Sister to drive, and Brother to look after 
the buggy in case any of the bolts came loose or 
some strap should unbuckle." 

"Sister! d' you hear /An/? Wake up — wake 
up," whispered Brother. 

Mamma answered, doubtingly, " Possibly you 
might persuade them to go." 

" Of course we '11 go ! " came in a chorus, as the 
two scrambled out of bed. 

" Why, arejw/ awake? And how good of you 
to be willing to go ! I was afraid you might want 
to stay at home — and study, perhaps," cried Aunt 
Sie, in great surprise, catching them both in her 

" And what are we to go to Joey Vale's for ? " 

" Grandpapa wants me to see Joey on business. 
You can ask him when you go down stairs." 

I did not take long for them to dress and get 
downstairs, where they called loudly in search of 
Grandpapa. At last they spied him coming from 
an early visit to the fields, and running to meet 
him, each secured a hand, and dancing along be- 
side him, begged to know why they were to go to 
see Joey Vale. 

" I want you to go and get me a dog." 

" A what ?" unable to believe their ears. 

" Yes, a dog. I hear that he has some for sale, 





and I thought if you two would go over and have 
a look at them, it would save me a trip." 

They looked at Grandpapa ; then dropping his 
hand, they seized each other's, and began what 
they called a "joyful dance," which consisted of' 
lilting up and down and squealing. To have had 
the bare privilege of paying a visit to Joey Vale 
would have seemed to them the acme of happi- 
ness, for the admiration which they felt for him 
was unbounded. He was thirteen years old — "a 
perfectly t'-normous boy, half as tall as Papa," 
according to their description as given to their 
mother after their first sight of him. And besides 
his weight of years, his acquirements were such as 
to command an awed respect. He had found 
Mistress Judy and her little pigs after all the men 
and boys on the place had hunted for her in vain, 
and they had heard Grandpapa say that he had 
more sense than all the crew put together. And 
long ago Aunt Sie had told them that a guinea- 
hen that could hide her nest so that Joey could 
not find it, would be sharp even for a guinea-hen. 
And then the flutter-wheels and weather-cocks 
that he could make ! They felt much better ac- 
quainted with him when he was n't around than 
when he was, and they spoke familiarly of him in 
his absence, as " Joey," while in his presence they 
usually just coughed instead of addressing him 
directly ; and they secretly marveled at the ease 
with which their grandfather and aunts carried 
themselves toward him. 

And to buy a dog from a boy like that ! 

Just as they finished breakfast, Charley was 
driven up to the door. Brother made a careful 
examination of all the bolts and running-gear and 
put a stout rope into the buggy ; for he and Sister 
had decided to tie the dog behind the vehicle, 
and let him trot home. 

To the casual observer Charley was not a beast 
to inspire fear in the most timid breast. But the 
feat of driving him was greatly heightened by a 
current belief of the small people, that it was only 
superior horsemanship which kept him from gallop- 
ing off at break-neck speed. He was twenty-four 
years old, but as his grassy pathway through life 
had been plentifully strewn with oats and corn, he 
was still sleek and fat, and shone like a ripe chest- 
nut. He knew his own mind about the amount 
of labor that should be required of a horse of his 
age, and it mattered little to him what others 
thought. Nothing but a fly could cause him to 
alter the pace which he usually adopted as in keep- 
ing with a dignified demeanor. 

After much talk the expedition set forth. Sis- 
ter held the reins, Brother the whip, and Aunt 
Sie sat between the two, and received into either 
ear a steady flow of conversation. 

" Now," said Brother, " I think as Sister gets 
to drive, I ought to be the one to pick out the 

" 1 think that would be only a fair division," an- 
swered Aunt Sie, " if you can find the way." 

"To be sure I can find it," and Brother stood 
up and pointed with the whip. "After you get 
through the woods you turn into another road, 
and that takes you to the road that runs along the 
top of the world — over there. D' ye see it ? " 

Sister nudged Aunt Sie with her sharp little el- 
bow and whispered, " The top of the world ! as if 
all roads were n't on top of the world ! " Then aloud 
she asked, " Brother, what shape is the world? " 

" I know; it 's round." 

" But does it seem round? It did n't use to, to 
me, when I was your age." Sister always kept 
Brother a good year and a half behind her in wis- 

"How did it use to seem to you, Sister?" 
Brother asked meekly, not wishing to commit 

" It seemed like a high, level bluff, that you could 
have jumped off of, into the ocean." 

" Yes, that 's the way it used to seem to me, — 
only I used to think you could jump off into a 
river, /didn't used to know about oceans." 

" Brother," said Sister, with a sternness she was 
occasionally obliged to employ toward him, "you 
have always known about oceans." 

"I mean I did n't use to know when I was a 
young chap, and wore long dresses, and stayed in 
my crib." 

" Now, Aunt Sie, I don't like that habit Brother 
has of getting out of things, and I wish you 'd for- 
bid it. As if any one expected him to know about 
the world when he was a goo-goo and stayed in his 
crib ! " 

" Oh ! but Brother knew a great many things, 
even when he was only a goo- goo." 

A fruitful theme was thus started, and poor 
Aunt Sie was kept busy with stories of their infancy 
until they reached the Vale farm. The fierce 
barking of a collie brought Mrs. Vale to the door, 
and Joey came from behind the house, where he 
was chopping wood. 

Aunt Sie made their errand known, after a little 
chat with Mrs. Vale, and Joey was at once dis- 
patched to the kennel and speedily returned with 
three squirming, big-headed pups in his arms, and 
jealously followed by their mother. 

" How small they are ! " exclaimed Aunt Sie. 

" They '11 grow fast, and they 're just about 
weaned, now," Joey assured her. 

" Oh ! I dare say they '11 grow. They are not 
just what I wanted, — still — What do you think 
of them, children? " 




" They 're just lovely ! " answered Sister, strok- 
ing them. 

" Will they always stand that way, — like stools? " 
asked Brother uneasily, as Joey put one down upon 
its widely spreading legs. 

He felt thoroughly ashamed when Joey laughed 
and explained that the legs would soon stiffen into 
good shape. That wise young man also called 
their attention to the " twa een on each side of the 
head," which showed them to be high-bred collies ; 
and told of so many accomplishments possessed by 
their mother, that Aunt Sie closed the bargain, and 
received a promise that the pup should arrive at the 
farm that evening. 

As they turned homeward Brother cast a regret- 
ful glance at the stout rope which lay useless in 
the buggy. He had pictured to himself the noble 
animal — very like those he had seen in pictures 
of Alpine snow-storms — which was to have trotted 
home at the end of it. He had intended to hold 
the rope kindly but firmly — in a manner to let the 
dog know that, while a master's kindness might 
always be depended upon, a boy's authority is 
something to be recognized, too. Still, Brother 
had the happy faculty of coming upon blessings, 
no matter how events turned, and finally said with 
a faint sigh : 

" It 's much better for Joey to bring him — he can 
explain to the pup's mother, and besides, if we had 
tied him to the buggy," — a pause in order to have 
some good reason present itself, — "Juno might 
have chased after us, and hooked him." 

" I think we won't let him associate much with 
Juno, she 's so bad/' replied Sister. In her heart 
she dearly loved Juno ; still, since the day they were 
lost, she had assumed rather a condemning tone in 
speaking of her. 

" Certainly, the less he has to do with Juno the 
better dog he will be," Aunt Sie concurred. 

" Yes, but poor Juno is very young, you know, 
for a cow, — of course, she is a rather old calf, — I 
don't think she really meant to be bad that day," 
faithful Brother could not help saying. 

The afternoon was employed in fitting up, for the 
use of the new dog, sumptuous apartments in a 
large box. 

The windows of the dining-room commanded a 
view of the road, and during the evening meal two 
pairs of eyes scanned it constantly. At last a glad 
shout of "There he comes ! " rose from Brother, and 
a hasty adjournment was made to the porch by all. 

" He has n't got it ! " wailed Sister. 

" He — has n't — got it ! " echoed Brother. 

"Where is the pup, Joey?" called Grandpapa, 
as the boy came within speaking distance. 

" He 's here, sir," was the cheery answer. 

" He 's there, Sister. Oh, goody ! " 

" But /don't see him." 

Joey patted an oblong bulge which showed itself 
on one side of his jacket. As he halted, the bulge 
was seen to ascend, and a moment later a silky head 
thrust itself out at the collar. 

" It 's a good way to carry a pup, and besides I 
had to slip away from the mother," said Joey, as he 
unbuttoned his jacket. 

Grandpapa took the pup and held him ri p for 
inspection. " There is n't much of him ! — is there, 

" Not yet, sir. But he 's healthy and strong," 
and Joey enumerated the various marks of canine 
aristocracy which the small beast bore. 

" Well, well, you know more about that than I 
do, and I 'II take your word for it all. Here, chil- 
dren, get Joey to show you how to feed him and 
put him to bed. He 's your dog, and you '11 have 
to see that he 's properly brought up. Come, 
Brother, take hold of him." Brother took him 
by the nape of the neck, which caused Sister to 
dance frantically from one foot to the other. 
"Don't carry him in that way — oh, you cruel 
boy ! See how meek it makes him look, with his 
little paws curled down and his tail curled up — oh, 
oh, put him into my apron ! " 

Here the late owner interfered, declaring that 
dogs preferred to be carried in that way, and the 
procession disappeared around the house. 

Six weeks passed, and six weeks make a great 
difference in the size of a pup, and in his character 
too. During that time he had been named — and 
"Bingo was his name." His legs had stiffened 
up ; and now, instead of hanging on to a step by 
his chin, and whining when he wished to reach 
a higher altitude, or rolling over and over with a 
series of protesting yelps when he tried to reach a 
lower plane, he could thump up and down stairs at 
a fine rate. He had tried various means by which 
to ingratiate himself into an intimate friendship 
with Aunt Lisha, the least successful of which was 
to rouse her suddenly from her morning dreams by 
leaping upon her bed and frolicking over it until its 
snowy whiteness was starred with tracks of red clay. 
He had chased every turkey, chicken, and duck on 
the place ; and he had insulted Pooley, the cat, over 
and over again by barking at her and trying to drive 
her out of the library. At first she had not thought 
it worth while to notice him, she despised him so, 
but one day he went a little too far — he pawed her 
tail, and squeaked around her, until she, who had 
been a respected member of the household for years, 
felt that he might be mistaking her contempt for 
fear. On that day she laid her ears back until her 
head looked quite round, made a straight line of 




her mouth, and stared unblinkingly at him for sev- 
eral seconds ; then with lightning swiftness dealt 
him a stinging blow on one ear first, and then on the 
other, and forever settled the question of suprem- 
acy. Bingo retreated with loud howls, and never 
halted until safely hidden under the sofa, from 
which refuge he complained loudly to his sym- 
pathizing young friends; and he allowed himself 
invalid manners for some time afterward. 

But, while he was growing, his education was 
not neglected. He was taught to carry Grand- 
papa's cane, and although it usually took the 
whole family to recover it again, so thoroughly did 
he enter into the duty, still it was thought to look 
well to see a little dog so willing to make himself 
useful. Then he could play hide-and-seek prob- 
ably more beautifully than any dog of his age 
ever played it before. All that was necessary was 
for Aunt Sie to sit down upon the grass, and cause 
him to hide his eyes by holding him with all her 
strength, until the children, snugly hidden behind 
the great rose-bushes, would shout, " Re-ad-y ! " — 
when, with the warning, 

" Ready or not, 

You must be caught," 
she would release him, and he would tear madly 
off in search of them. The sight would prove 
too much for the small hiders, and they would 
betray themselves by suppressed giggles, whereat 
Bingo would pounce upon them and chew them 
joyously, until, panting and breathless, they would 
reach the safe goal of dear Aunt Sie's arms. 

In spite of intending so differently, Sister and 
Brother had not been able to resist introducing 
Bingo to Juno, and many a gay frolic the four 
friends had together. There were, it is true, sham 
battles, in which Juno seemed on the point of hook- 
ing Bingo, and Bingo seemed on the point of bit- 
ing Juno's legs; but these exciting little maneuvers 
only served to raise the spirits of the four, and put 
them into the humor for a dash down the long 
sloping pasture, at the lower end of which they 
usually landed in something of a heap. 

But it was after a trip to Richmond, where thev 
saw a goat-cart drawn by two goats, that the crown- 
ing accomplishment of Bingo's life was attempted. 

"We '11 train Bingo to draw the Express." said 
Brother that night, as he and Sister were recall- 
ing the glories of the day. 

" Do you think he is strong enough?" 

" Dogs are very strong." 

' ; If only Pooley was n't so crabbed with him, 
we might have a span," said Sister, regretfully. 

" Or if Joey would lend us one of the pups ! " 

" O-h ! " 

" We '11 ask Grandpapa to lend us Charley, to 
morrow, and we '11 drive over and hire one of 

Joey's pups, and we '11 train them to trot together. 
Won't we zip ! " 

And the little heads settled down upon their 
pillows, full of beautiful plans, which, it is to be 
hoped, were realized in dreamland, for the next day 
dawned in a downpour of rain which put a trip 
to Joey Vale's beyond the limit of possibilities. 

But about ten o'clock, they disappeared in the di- 
rection of the big barn, under a capacious umbrella, 
with Bingo demurely trotting at their bare little 
heels. After much consultation they had decided 
to take advantage of their enforced leisure to make 
a harness for Bingo. A rainy morning, and a big 
clean barn, are not a bad combination, and the 
little brother and sister were soon cosily ensconced 
in the backseat of the family carriage, while Bingo 
lay sleeping in the front. They were very busy 
with their harness making, and their fingers and 
tongues kept time. Now and then Bingo was 
disturbed while measurements were taken, but 
the steady rain on the roof speedily lulled him to 
sleep again. 

At the further end of the barn, and connected with 
it, was an open shed under which the fowls could 
gather, out of the rain, and through the open door 
the little workers could hear the subdued remarks 
that the poultry seemed to be making about the 
weather. Prominent in the group was the stately 
turkey-gobbler, " .Mr. Cornelius," who, as usual, 
was striving to impress his audience with his im- 
portance, and was strutting and swelling to the 
point of bursting. 

" He 's a fine fellow," remarked Brother, after 
watching him in silent admiration. 

" He 'd be much nicer, if only he were a swan," 
said Sister ; " then we could harness him to a small 
boat and have him take us around the carp pond. 
What a lovely swan he 'd make ; only his neck 
ought to be longer and he ought to be snow-white." 

" Sister ! " exclaimed Brother, standing up," Sis- 
ter, I 've got it. I 've thought of something ! It 's 
much better that he 's a turkey." 

At noon, the clouds broke away and the sun shone 
out. Grandpapa, who had been having a long quiet 
morning in the library, looked up as the warm ray 
fell across his book. 

" Where are those blessed children keeping 
themselves all this time?" he asked of his 
daughters, who sat near the porch door enjoying 
one of their never-ending talks. 

" Oh ! they and the faithful Bingo are down at 
the barn. They have — " 

" Excuse me, Miss Sie, fur comin' in with my 
muddy feet, but I jes' want to ask de boss if he 
'lows de chillun to 'buse Mr. Co'nelius ! " interrupted 
Randolph, appearing excitedly at the door. 


"Abuse Mr. Cornelius! Of course I don't. 
What in the world are they doing to him ? " de- 
manded Grandpapa, rising hastily to his feet. 

" Dey 's dun gone an' hitched him to de spress- 
vvagon, 'long with Bingo," and Randolph's severity 
melted into a broad grin, which showed that deep 
down in his heart there lurked some faint enjoy- 
ment of the situation. 

" Cornelius and Bingo hitched into the express 
wagon ! The boy must be crazy," and Grandpapa 
strode across the porch. His daughters followed 
and beheld a procession making its way toward the 

Surrounded by ducks, geese, and chickens, each 
loudly adding to the confusion, came the express- 
wagon — the triumphal car. Beside it, with stately 
demeanor, walked Sister, with flower-bedecked 
head and wand. Behind, giving a helping hand 
to the wagon and holding the reins of his unruly 
steeds, puffed Brother ; while harnessed to the 
car, came Dignity and Impudence — Mr. Cornelius 
and Bingo. Poor Mr. Cornelius ! Pegasus chained 
to a plow must have been frivolous and jocular 
compared to him. His legs were hobbled, the 
better to regulate his speed, and his rotund body 
was encased in an ingeniously-contrived harness. 
That he felt the degradation of his position was 
apparent in every feather. His breast bulged, 
his wings strove to drag upon the ground, his 
" night-cap " hung far over his beak, and his wat- 
tles shaded from a bluish white to a wrathful red. 
From time to time he uttered ejaculations which 
must have been something terrible in turkey lan- 
guage, and made sidewise leaps at the joyous 
pup, who flopped and capered, and gave vent to 

6 I 7 

his pleasure by pawing him affectionately with 
his great muddy feet. 

Brother was quite flushed with the combined 
exertion of pushing and urging, when he looked 
up and saw his family coming to meet them. 

"They '11 — go — better after — while — Grand- 
papa. I have to boost — Mr. Cor — nelius a good 
deal; — he doesn't under — stand yet. Sister's 
the Fairy — Queen and — this is her Chariot," he 
explained between puffs. 

Sister waved her wand majestically. 

Grandpapa had come out determined to scold 
them soundly, if he found them in mischief, and 
Mamma had intended to help him. But the ab- 
sence of guile — their perfect good faith — com- 
pletely disarmed both. They felt helpless under 
the circumstances, and looked about for something 
to blame. Bingo, with his open countenance, at 
once suggested himself as a suitable scape-goat. 

'• I had hoped that Bingo would keep them out 
of mischief," sighed Mamma, forlornly. 

Aunt Sie began in this same desolate manner : 
' ' / thought he would be a protection to them — " 

" And a comfort to father, in his old age, as. 
well," added Aunt Lisha. 

Grandpapa began in a rather high key through 
suppressed laughter: "Children, I am more 
pained than I can say to see you ill-treat a poor 

Sister's wand dropped in perfect amazement. 
"Have we been bad, Grandpapa?" and Brother 
stood up very straight, while his eyes and mouth 
shaped themselves into a very large and solemn 
" O," before he said, contritely, "We did not 
know it was bad, Grandpapa ! " 


By H. H. Ballard. 

Although photography has now been under- 
stood for many years, it has only fairly entered upon 
its term of service. Perhaps itschief importance may 
continue to lie in the reproduction of the faces of 
our friends, but it is rapidly coming to much wider 
fields of usefulness. The manufacture of cheap 

apparatus has done much to hasten this extension 
of photographic possibilities. 

All boys and girls can now take their own pic- 
tures, and each finds some new object on which to- 
try the powers of the lens. 

Jack must have photographs of his pony, at 




rest, and also at full gallop so he can see how the 
horse moves its legs. Jill must have her favorite 
kitten pictured in all its graceful attitudes. Then 

heron or a startled deer ; and their mother, whose 
tastes seek gratification in her garden, finds that 
she can preserve the graceful forms of roses and 
lilies in unwilting freshness by the same magician's 

One great advantage of the camera for the lover 
of nature is that the youthful and untrained student 
of nature is enabled by its aid to secure an exact 
reproduction of whatever interesting plant, or in- 
sect, or crystal he may discover — a representation 
more exact than the most skillful artist could pro- 
duce without such help. 

Suppose that you were visiting the sea-shore, 
and should find an exquisite shell or branch of 
coral. Would it not afford you unusual pleasure 
to be able to preserve in light and shade each 
graceful curve and delicate tone of the one, and 
the intricate structure, — nay, the very texture and 
roughness of the other ? See how the camera, 

in the hands of a young friend of mine, has brought 
one or two such specimens before us ! So perfect 
is the reproduction that it almost seems that we 
can handle them ! 

The young astronomer may attach the camera 
to his telescope and make the moon herself draw 
her own picture for him. The young microscopist 
can so combine microscope and camera as to pro- 
duce clear photographs of objects too small to be 
seen by the unaided eye. More wonderful still, 
the plate is so sensitive that it catches and pre- 
serves impressions too faint for the unaided eye. 
The astronomer finds more stars on bis negative 
the father of Jack and Jill, who loves all animals, than were visible in the sky ; the physician per- 
wild and tame, does not see why he should not ceives symptoms in the photograph which he 
borrow the camera and try a flying shot at a rising failed to discern from the skin of his patient; and 



the lens arrests and pictures the whirring wing of 
the insect, the flying bullet, the very flash of light- 
ning, showing, in the latter, thousands of delicate 
forkings of light, which escape the sight blinded 

by the excessive light. A writer in the West 
American Scientist says : 

" A striking illustration of the value of the camera to 
astronomy is furnished by the recent discovery of a new 
nebula near the star ' Maia ' in the Pleiades. Until 
photographed at the Paris Observatory, this nebula had 
never been seen by the best glasses, although it has 
since been detected with the great telescope of the Pub 
kova Observatory. The Emperor of Brazil now an- 
nounces his determination to cooperate, at the Rio de 
Janeiro Observatory, in the general project of photo- 
graphing the entire heavens, already begun at Paris with 
such unexpected success." 

Before closing this paper, I wish to suggest to 
the ingenious young men who read St. Nicholas, 
and who are amateur photographers, a new device, 
which they can easily make and apply ; it will, I 
think, furnish many interesting results. It may 
be called an "automatic shutter." Let a disk 
with regular openings be caused to revolve by 
clock-work in such a way as, at stated intervals 
(say, often minutes), to expose the sensitive paper 
for a fraction of a second. The sensitive paper 
should be on rollers, as it is now in some cameras, 
and these rollers also should be operated by the 

clock. An apparatus constructed on this princi- 
ple could be used in many ways ; only a few need 
be mentioned. Let the instrument be set in front 
of a rose-bush, and carefully focussed upon a rose. 

Set the clock- 
work in motion 
and leave the 
camera to itself 
during a long 
period. Upon 
examining the 
paper, by and 
by, we should 
find a series of 
taken at inter- 
vals often min- 
utes, showing 
whatever insect 
visitors may 
have been at- 
tracted to the 

Set the cam- 
era in range for 
a wild bird's 
nest, and you 
should secure a 
series of pic- 
tures of bird- 
life, as it flows 
on undisturbed by the presence of man. Who 
knows what pretty domestic scenes of motherly 
care and fatherly providence might be revealed ? 
Many woodland and meadow creatures are so 
shy as to be observed with difficulty. Would 
not this detective-camera give us the grace- 
ful attitudes of the squirrel, the rabbit, and the 
woodchuck in their free gambolings or daily labors ? 
Set the clock to strike off pictures at longer 
intervals, and you will secure a record of the 
sprouting of seeds, the growth of plants, possibly 
even the development of embryonic life. 

While our young inventors are considering the 
practicability of making an instrument that will 
" wink " us pictures of itsown accord, let me hint to 
such owners of the lens as may be by the sea-side, 
that a little care and patience will enable them to 
secure what, so far as I know, has never yet been 
seen — a photograph of a tide-pool, wherein may 
be seen the waving tentacles of the sea-anemone, 
the curling arms of the starfish, the plumes of the 
barnacle, and the flash of the minnow, together 
with the exquisite forms of sea-weed and sunken 
rock ; all in their natural condition, bathed by 
crystal water, and alive under the golden sun. 

By Henry Bacon. 

It happened in France. 

Two little girls were on their way to school one 
morning in the summer-time. These little girls 
lived with their mother on the boundary of the 
village, and their school was in the village, so they 
had a long walk along a solitary road between their 
home and the " Sister's" school, as it was called, 
for the teacher was a Sister of Charity. 

Each of these little girls had a basket on her 
arm, and in each basket were large slices of white 
bread, stuck together with plum-jam. 

They were very fond of white bread made of 
wheat flour, for the principal food at their home was 
black-bread, which was made of buckwheat; and 
they considered white bread a luxury. 

Later in the year, each would have had a big 
rosy apple to eat with the bread, instead of jam, 
but the apples were not ripe — as yet they were 
hardly larger than cherries. These little children 
were not sorry, however, for they liked plum-jam 
much better than an apple, even the ripest, rosiest 
apple. There was no danger the jam would soil 
their school-books, for they had none, — their les- 
sons were written by the Sister with chalk on a 
blackboard, and they had no need of books. 

Hand in hand, these little girls were trudging 
along the solitary road, when, turning a corner, 
they saw before them a man sitting on a log, with 
his head buried in his hands. The children were 
not much frightened ; why should they be, by a 
man resting upon the side of the road? No one 
had ever harmed them. They could not see the 
man's face, but, thinking he must be some one they 
knew, they went on fearlessly, stopping when they 
were opposite the stranger. 

The man did not stir, and they looked at him in 
silence for some seconds. 

" What is the matter ? " asked Marie, the elder. 

The man raised his head slightly, and looked at 
the children. They could see his eyes shining 
through the long hair that hung about his face. 

" Hungry," he answered in a voice between a 
whine and a growl. 

Louise, the little sister, was frightened ; the 
man's eyes reminded her of the wolf, — the wolf 
that she had heard about, that met Little Red- 
Ridinghood on the road as she was going to see 
her grandmother, — and so she was frightened. 
Away she ran, scampering down the road toward 

the village as fast as she could. Marie also was 
frightened: not so much as her little sister, but 
she did not like being left alone with the stranger, 
and so she followed the younger sister, not looking 
behind her until they were again hand in hand. 
Then both looked back ; the man had not stirred 
from his seat on the log. 

" He is hungry," said Marie. 

" Yes, he is hungry," repeated Louise. 

" He must be very hungry," said Marie. 

" Yes, he must be very hungry," repeated little 

" It must be terrible to be so hungry," said 
Marie, standing motionless in the road, and still 
looking back. 

"Yes, it must be terrible," Louise repeated 
again, pulling hard at her sister to prevent ner 
standing still. 

"' Suppose we give him some of our luncheon," 
said Marie. 

"And what would we do at noon ?" asked Louise, 
opening her basket and looking in, to assure her- 
self that her bread and jam were safe. 

" Don't you remember, the Sister told us if we 
helped others, we would be provided for ? Let us 
give the man some of our bread." 

" But the plum-jam? " questioned Louise. 

" Perhaps he likes jam," said her sister. 

" So do I," half whimpered Louise. 

" And then, the good Sister told us, the other 
day, about Saint Elizabeth. Don't you remember 
how, when she gave her best cloak to a beggar, 
she found another — a better one — hanging up 
in her room ? " 

"But the beggar did not eat up her cloak; it 
was not like bread and jam." 

" No, but if we give our luncheon to the beggar, 
perhaps, — perhaps at noon we shall find a better 
luncheon in our basket, just as Saint Elizabeth 
found a better cloak when her husband sent for her 
to come down and see the kings who had come to 
make them a visit." 

" Are you sure, Marie ? " 

" No, not sure, but perhaps. Let us try." 

■• I wish you would say sure." 

" Sure ! " said Marie. 

" Say it again ! " exclaimed Louise. 

" Sure ! " repeated her sister. 

"He shall have my luncheon, then; but must 



we go back ? Let us put it down here, and then 
run. He will find it, like the birds." 

Marie was not willing to leave the luncheon on 
the ground and then run, as her sister wished. 
She had listened to many wonderful stories, and 
wished that something wonderful might happen 
through her. Then, she thought, perhaps there 
might some day be another Saint Marie, and other 
little children would be told the story of this saint, 
and of her charities when a child. But it was not all 
vanity with this peasant child, for Marie's nature 

into hismouth, Louise held on herportion: "Now, 

The man, whose hunger was somewhat appeased, 
and whose mouth was too full to speak, shook 
his head. 

"Now, mine," insisted Louise, looking disap- 
pointed at the refusal. 

" No," said the man, as soon as he could, still 
refusing, for now he was no longer terribly hungry, 
he was somewhat ashamed of having taken the 
child's luncheon. 


was kind and charitable. So, clinging to one an- 
other, back they went to feed the hungry. 

" Did you say you were hungry ? " asked Marie, 
when they had come nearer, but were still at a safe 
distance from the stranger. 

" He is asleep," whispered Louise, for the man 
took no notice of the question. 

" Here is something to eat," persisted Marie, 
thrusting her lunch almost into the man's face. 

The man suddenly startled the children. With 
alow cry, he snatched the food, which he instantly 
began to devour like a wild animal. The chil- 
dren stood watching the hungry man, and as he 
stuffed the last morsel of Marie's bread and jam 

" Now, mine," insisted Louise, thrusting her 
offering into the man's hands, and, as one child's 
luncheon was not much for a hungry tramp, and 
she would not be denied, he took a large bite 
through both slices of the bread and jam. It al- 
most brought the tears to the eyes of Louise as she 
saw them going, — still, Marie had said "Sure! " 
But suppose Marie should be mistaken? 

When recess came, the Sister told her pupils 
they could get their baskets and eat their luncheon 
in the school-yard, under the trees. Standing at 
the school-room door, the teacher watched over 
the children. Soon she noticed Marie and Louise 
sitting at the foot of one of the trees, their heads 



close together, Marie looking very sad, and Louise 
crying. They had made themselves comfortable 
on the ground before opening their baskets, confi- 
dent they should find a good luncheon — and both 
baskets were empty ! 

" Saint Elizabeth has forgotten us ! " exclaimed 

" But you said ' sure,' twice," whimpered Louise, 
and began to cry and say she was hungry. 

"Why do you not eat your luncheon?" asked 
the Sister. 

" Saint Elizabeth has forgotten us," answered 

" And Marie said ' sure,' twice ! " 

It was with much difficulty that the Sister led 
the children to give an intelligible account of their 
attempt at charity. When at last she understood, 
she said : 

"Wait; I will see. Perhaps you are not for- 
gotten, after all," and she went into the house, 
leaving the children wondering. 

Soon, the teacher returned, holding in her hand 
a large piece of bread which she broke into halves, 
giving a piece to each of the sisters. 

"There, children, you see you have been re- 
membered," and so saying, she left them to enjoy 
their lunch. 

" But Saint Elizabeth has forgotten the jam ! " 
exclaimed Louise, after taking a bite and finding 
it was only dry bread. 

"Perhaps she did not know there was jam on 
our bread." 

" The good Sister ought to have told her." 

" She could not," explained Marie, adding, " I 
never tasted such nice bread before." 

But little Louise did not echo as usual, for, to 
her, dry bread without jam was simply dry bread, 
and it may have been Marie's imagination that 
helped her to enjoy her crust. 

The adventure was told over again to the mother 
when the children went home from school. 

"Was it not kind of Saint Elizabeth to have 
remembered us, after all, Mother?" asked Marie, 
when she had finished. 

" She forgot the plum-jam," said Louise. 

" But suppose Saint Elizabeth was obliged to go 
hungry ! " exclaimed the practical peasant mother. 

" Surely not Saint Elizabeth, mother? " 

"Some one must have gone hungry; probably 
the Sister gave you what she had intended to eat 

" And was it not Saint Elizabeth ? " asked Marie. 
" I was so sure it came from her." 

" Not unless the good Sister is so named. No, 
my dear, when the Sister saw you were hungry, 
she gave to you out of her frugal store. My dears, 
it was very sweet of you, to wish to feed the hun- 
gry man. But remember, when y r ou give, that you 
must not do so in the hope of being rewarded. 
That is not charity. Neither is it charity to give 
bread to one and take from the mouth of another. 
Probably the good Sister went hungry." 

" I am so sorry," Marie said, disappointed and 
repentant, bursting into tears. 

Louise only pouted and muttered to herself: 

" But she forgot the jam ! " 


By William Ludwell Sheppard. 

Aunt Clemmy was working away at her knit- 
ting. For several months she had been working 
and nodding over the same stocking. 

" 'T ain't wuth while to hurry over de heel, 
chile, 'cause you might spile it ; and den — dah ! " 
she would say to Elsie, who made inquiries from 
time to time as to the progress of old Aunty's 

Elsie was curled up in the old-fashioned sofa 
that afternoon. Her chin was sunk deep into the 
frilled yoke of her apron, and her hair hung in 
bronze-colored tresses about her cheeks as she bent 
over the book in her lap. The light was begin- 
ning to fade, and the brown shadows to lurk in the 
corners of the old wainscoted room. 

Aunt Clemmy, just awake from a refreshing 
nap, was quite ready for conversation. She had 
made to her companion several remarks that 
remained unnoticed ; so, in a louder tone, she tried 
a general observation : 

"I always he-ared dat 't was perlite to answer 
folks's perlite questions." 

Elsie had ceased reading at that moment, as the 
words were becoming illegible in the waning light, 
and she heard Aunty Clemmy's voice, but did not 
distinguish the words. 

" What did you say, Aunty ? " she asked as she 
regretfully laid her book aside. Aunt Clemmy 
repeated her remark. 

"But, Aunty," apologized Elsie, "I was so in- 
terested that I did n't understand you." 

" Dat 's what I say. I ain' so suttin 'bout all dis 
readin', ef it 's goin' to draw folkses off from dere 
maimers an' ev'thing." 

Elsie saw that there was danger of exciting a 
discussion, so she observed that she would go and 
find Mamma. The discussion which seemed likely 
to arise — at least Aunty's tone of voice was that 
which generally preceded debate — was an old one 
between Elsie and herself. As Aunt Clemmy stated 
it, it was : " Whether folkses was better wid book- 
larnin', or 'dout none," Elsie, of course, always 
stoutly maintaining the affirmative. Aunty was 
not alone in doubting the advantages of learning. 
Many of her race who had been slaves and never 
learned to read, were nevertheless prospering, so 
far as mere necessaries were concerned, and conse- 
quently considered education superfluous. Several 

days elapsed, and although Elsie spent a part 
of every afternoon in the old sitting-room with 
Aunt Clemmy, the favorite topic was not started 
by the old woman. 

One afternoon, however, Elsie got up to draw 
her chair closer to a small fire which Aunty had 
lighted because it was growing chilly. Her stir- 
ring waked Aunt Clemmy, who immediately fell 
to knitting as fast as she could for a few moments. 

(The older servants used to say that Aunt 
Clemmy, when a " li'l' gal," used to knit by the 
side of her old mistress, who would give her a tap 
on the head with her thimbled finger whenever she 
fell asleep, so that "the gal," on waking, would 
begin knitting as fast as she could, to pretend that 
she had not been napping, — and that Aunt Clemmy 
had retained this habit in her old age.) 

" Honey," said Aunt Clemmy, after a vigorous 
spell of a few seconds at her stocking, to Elsie, 
who was blinking at the fire. 

Elsie looked up, smiling, for the long delayed 
struggle " 'bout dat 'vantages of edication." 

" Honey," repeated Aunt Clemmy, " we 's been 
'scussin' an' 'sputifyin' mightily 'bout l'arnin' — but 
I 's done change my min'." 

"Why, Aunty!" exclaimed Elsie, startled into 
rapt attention by Aunty's unhoped-for surrender. 

" Yes, honey. Yo' knows dat raskil gran'son 
of mine, Beyouregard, who 's done got a prize at 
school. Well, las' night when I wuz 'bukin' him 
'bout de 'lasses — which it wuz mos' all gone outen 
the jug, an' dey wa' n't nobody to cat it but him, 
'cause de cat don' like it — and which I 'bukecl him 
outen de word o' Scripter, he ups an' sez, sez he, 
' Folkses better know how to sarch de Scripter, 'fo' 
dey alway' bringin' of it up ag'inst dere neighbors.' 
'Fo' I could git the broom, dat boy got outen de 
door ; but he shut it to so quick, it done mash his 



! Dat settle me ! I 


1 arn 




how to read; dat what I gwine do." 

"Why, of course, Aunty; and I 
of it. But how are you going to L 
Beauregard — ? " 

" Him ! No, inarm ; not ef I never l'arn. Who 
but you, honey? You 's de very one. Ain't I 
been 'sputin' 'g'inst you all de time 'bout de 'van- 
tages, an' you been talkin' so be'utiful 'bout 'em, 
dat I hated to wi'stan'yo'? But I didn' mean nut'n' ; 




yo' ole Aunty did n' mean nut'n', crowdin' uv yo' 
so clus in de argy ment, sometimes." 

She drew the shapely head of her little girl 
against her knee and stroked the heavy tresses. 
She could not see the laughing eyes — laughing as 

I done 'scuss with you ? An' don' I kno' how smart 
yo' is, teachin' me uv multrication table — an' five 
an' fo' meks nine — an' all dem 'rethmetics ? " 

So it was agreed that Elsie should begin as soon 
as the old primer could be found. 


■well at the cause of Aunty's sudden conversion as Aunty Clemmy knew her letters, but not in the 

at her ingenious plea for forgiveness. order which is generally observed. Her favorite 

" Well, Aunty, I will try. I 'm only a scholar, form was " a, b, c, d, q, r. s, t, v." She never would 

myself, you know." admit that there was any use in knowing the suc- 

" 'Tain' vvuth while fo' yo' to talk dat way. Ain' cession of the letters. " I knows 'em by sight, chile, 




an' I knows 'em by name, so it don' mek no differ- 
ence how dey comes arter one 'n'er." 

The primer was duly found, and Elsie one after- 
noon sacrificed her play to the cause of education. 
Aunty was shown the mysteries of a-b, ab, and 
b-a, ba, etc. She was to learn the list for two days, 
and then to say it without the book. 

Elsie sat up straight on the old hair-cloth Chip- 
pendale sofa and began. 

" A, b, Aunty ; what does that spell ? " 

" A, b, aby." 

"Oh! Aunty — ab. Nowb, a." She could not 
help making the little word on her lips, but Aunty 
answered confidently, " Beeyea." In like manner 
c, a, became " Seeyea." Elsie felt like both laugh- 
ing and crying. The result was very mortifying to 
her as a teacher ; but it was difficult to keep from 
laughing at Aunty's serene confidence in herself. 

Several trials developed no symptoms of further 
advance, and Elsie began to lose hope of success. 
She prevailed upon her brother Tom, who gen- 
erally came in from play every evening too sleepy 
to study his own lessons, to try his hand at hearing 
Aunty. Aunty gave very nearly the same answers 
to Tom, but when she answered that a, g, spelt 
" Agy," Tom rolled over on the floor and roared 
with laughter, until Aunty threatened to report 
him to " he paw soon 's he come fum de Co't House." 
Elsie took the book from his hand and went crying 
to her mother. 

But Elsie had much determination in her char- 
acter, and would not abandon Aunty as a hope- 
less scholar. She consulted Mamma about the 
matter. Mamma proposed to her to try the old 
rhyming method, and gave her several rhymes con- 
nected with the spelling of words of one syllable. 
Elsie's hopes revived, and she renewed her lessons 
to Aunt Clemmy. The jingles amused the old 
woman prodigiously, and frequently during the 
day Elsie's Mamma would hear the old scholar 
running over, 

"A-b, ab, I cotcfi a crab, 
N-o, no, I let him go, 
I-n, in, I cotcli him ag'iru" 

The whole family became interested, and, as the 
old rhymes did not hold out very long, they began 
to devise new ones for Aunty's education. Every 

advantage, too, was taken of the association of ideas 
in aiding the memory, as rat and cat, house and 
mouse, etc. 

One jingle ran in this way: 

" C and a and t, spell cat. 
Rand a and t, spell rat." 

Aunty would frequently say make instead of 
spell, from the " 'rethmetics " coming into her 
head. Sometimes she twisted the first line into 
"C and a and cat, make tea," and when her 
attention was called to the change she never failed 
to laugh until the tears rolled over her "specs." 

Unfortunately, the arrangement of the rhymes 
in couplets, being once fixed in Aunty's mind, 
became unchangeable. Consequently, in spelling 
a sentence the outcome was rather bewildering. 
In reading a little sentence like this one (she knew 
is and in and the, by sight), " The rat is in the pig- 
pen," the effect of the mixture of rhymed syllables 
in her mind would appear thus : " The r-a-t rat, 
and the c-a-t cat, is in the p-i-g pig, and j-i-g jig, 
p-e-n pen, and h-e-n hen." When Aunt Clemmy 
finished reading this, or some similar sentence, 
and Elsie would ask what it all spelled, she would 
get this for an answer : 

"Hi! am' I jes' done read it all over to you. 
lovely? an' you wan' me say it all over again? — 
Yo' ain' got no mem'ry /" 

After some weeks' trial the lessons became fewer 
and fewer. Elsie saw that they were fruitless, 
though she never hinted as much to Aunty; 
and Aunty was so satisfied that her education 
was completed at two syllables, that she did not 
complain when the lessons stopped there. But 
the younger servants who could read were disposed 
to amuse themselves over Aunty's pretensions to 
"edication." "It 's hard to teach ole dog new- 
tricks," some would say. And Beauregard, in spite 
of his relation to the old woman, was as bad as 
any of them, and so aggravated Aunt Clemmy that 
one morning she said to Elsie: "Honey, I been 
s'archin' de Scripters an' done see heap o' words 
I knows ; 'speciallin' a's and tlie's, but I 's gettin' 
'long slow, and would be glad if you could fin' me 
some good tex' fur bad boys, ez dat Beyouregard 
's gittin' wuss an wuss ! I ain' got no time to l'arn 
no mo' o' dish yer readin'." 

VOL. XVI. — 40. 



i j?i^^ J 





Then I heard her laughing 

Gayly in the sun, 
I thought the summer over; 

Why, it 's only just begun ! " 

" Oh, dear ! is summer over? " 
I heard a rosebud moan, 
When first her eyes she opened, 
And found she was alone. 

" Oh, why did summer leave me, 
Little me, belated ? 
Where are the other roses? 

I think they might have waited ! ' 

Soon the little rosebud 
Saw to her surprise 

Other roses opening, 
So she dried her eyes. 



By Harlan H. Ballard. 

Some months ago, a man who was working for 
a lady in one of the larger towns of Pennsylvania 
brought her a very beautiful nest, containing three 
small white eggs. 

"Why, Hans," she exclaimed, "where in the 
world did you find it ? " 

Hans replied that while he had been removing 
some stones from a ledge of lime-rock by the banks 
of the creek that flowed near the town he had dis- 
covered the nest on a projecting ledge, " unt I 
nodiced, lady, dot dere vas a schmall zdream of 
vasser drigglin' down ofer dot nezd. Mebbe it vos 
lime-vasser dot made id zo hart like a sdone." 
The recipient of this unusual gift had not before 
noticed that it was, indeed, hard and heavy, and to 
all appearances completely petrified, or, at least, 
incrusted with a white calcareous deposit. The 
three eggs in it were, like the nest itself, entirely 
covered with the limy incrustation. "Dere vas 
anudder," Hans remarked, with a tone of regret 
and mortification ; and, as if impelled to the con- 
fession by the power of a strong conscience, "bud 
I brogue id als I vas geddin' down from d' gliff. 
I vos fiery zorry." With these words Hans with- 
drew, almost overcome by the gracious words of 
gratitude which followed him to the door. 

After he had gone there was an opportunity for 
a close examination of the wonderful specimen. 
All the family were called in, and all agreed in 
declaring it the most beautiful natural curiosity 
they had ever seen. 

" See, Mamma," cried little Mary, " it looks 
exactly as if it were made of moss." 

" Undoubtedly it was," replied her mother ; "do 
you not remember that piece of petrified moss 
Uncle Professor used to show you ? " 

" Yes, indeed, Mamma ; and this is precisely 
like it, only made into this lovely nest. I wonder 
what kind of bird made it ! Oh, here comes Will ! 
he'll know; he knows everything about birds. 
Will, come here, and see this beautiful petrified 
bird's-nest ! Hans found it on a ledge over by the 

"Petrified grandmother!" said Will, irrever- 
ently ; but as his eyes fell on the graceful lines of 
the nest, in which each little curving twig and 
twining hair was perfectly outlined, he whistled, 
and exclaimed in an entirely different tone, " By 

gracious, where in time did you get that? It 's 
— a — dandy ! " 

Will now proceeded to give the nest an exam- 
ination in what he was pleased to consider a 
thoroughly scientific manner. Each tiny root and 
blade of incrusted grass was scrutinized in turn. 
It was wonderful to see his boyish hands, some- 
times so carelessly used upon fragile household 
articles as to be declared "clumsy," touching this 
delicate fabric as daintily as an artist. A boy may 
break your china vase, but never the infinitely 
more fragile porcelain of the eggs in his " collec- 

"Well, sir, what is it? "said Mamma, after a 
few minutes had passed. 

" It 's a petrified phebe's nest," said the young 
ornithologist. " Phebes make their nests of green 
moss, and line them with rootlets and little twigs 
and grass just like this, and they lay little white 
eggs just this shape, and they always build on a 
beam or ledge of rock, and nearly always very near 
a creek. See there," he added, pointing to the end 
of one tiny stem inside the nest, which had been 
broken off, "that piece is hollow; it must have 
been a bit of grass." 

" Is n't it rather contrary to our usual notions 
of bird intelligence that a phebc should place her 
nest where it should be in danger of so disastrous a 
flood as this little stream of lime-water has proved ? " 
suggested Mamma. 

" Birds often do that sort of thing," said Will : 
" I Ye known wrens to build in the sleeve of a coat 
hanging in the shed, and they have been known 
to build even in the mouth of a cannon." 

When Will's father came home to dinner the 
nest was shown to him, and he was as much 
delighted as were the rest of the family. He took 
it down to his office and placed it in the win- 
dow, where for many weeks it attracted the atten- 
tion and aroused the admiration of all who passed 
that way. 

Such was substantially the history of my petri- 
fied bird's-nest. prior to last January. At that time 
a friend of mine in passing the window where it 
lay, was arrested by its beauty, and, knowing that 
I was interested in all such things, kindly tried to 
buy it for me. His proposition was rejected, for 
no price would be set upon the unique curiosity. 



I June, 

He wrote me a description of it, however, and upon 
my expressing a strong desire to see it, succeeded 
in inducing its owners to lend it to him in order 
that my wish might be gratified. 

Rarely have I experienced greater pleasure than 
when 1 carefully opened the box in which it had 

tion of petrified birds'-nests was found save in 
Rees's old volumes, where I found fossils divided, 
according to the Linnaean system, into eight Genera, 
of which the third, Ornitholithus, includes " the 
body or parts of a bird changing into a fossil sub- 
stance." Under this head is the remark : '-The 

safely traveled from Pennsylvania to Massachusetts, 
and with nervous fingers removed the cotton which 
protected the delicate treasure. I have had a 
photograph made of the nest as I then saw it, 
looking down upon it from above, showing the 
eggs. It corresponded perfectly with the descrip- 
tion I had received, but was tenfold more beautiful 
than I had imagined. I wrote little notices of il 
for our local papers, and invited all interested in 
the wonderful works of nature to visit our Athe- 
naeum, where it was on exhibition, and inspect it. 
For a week it was the great attraction. Collectors 
came and saw and — envied; teachers brought 
their pupils, and mothers and fathers brought 
their children to see the wonderful petrified bird's- 
nest. All were equally enthusiastic. I began to 
wonder whether the specimen were not really 
unique. Encyclopaedias were consulted. No men- 

fossil remains of birds are very rarely met with, 
although, as Mr. Parkinson says, they are fre- 
quently mentioned, and even described, by differ- 
ent authors. Several of those specimens which 
have been spoken of as petrifactions of whole birds, 
and of their nests, have been merely calcareous 
incrustations of very modern date." 

But even these were only nests, nests without an 
egg. At this juncture I wrote to my friend in 
Pennsylvania to try to secure the nest for me. 
" Offer ten dollars," I wrote ; " if that will not buy 
it, try fifteen ; if that is refused, try twenty-five ; 
and if that does n't secure it, write me, and I may 
be willing to go higher still." 

About this time I was pleased to see in one of 
the leading ornithological magazines that the dis- 
covery in one of the Southern States of a fossil 
bird's-egg was made the subject of a communica- 

i88 9 .; 



tion before one of our learned societies. What was 
one egg to a nest with three ? 

I rather wish that my story could end right here, 
but truth compels me reluctantly to continue. 
Among those who came to see the nest while it was 
on exhibition was one lady, whose manner of look- 
ing at it caused me a little annoyance. She did 
not appear to feel that restraint in its presence 
which I had remarked in others. She took it in her 
hands, and turned it upside down to see the bottom 
of it. I was afraid she would break an egg, and 
ventured to caution her as to the fragile nature of 
birds'-eggs in general and petrified birds'-eggs in 
particular. She smiled and returned the nest to 
me with the remark that she had one at home 
of which this one reminded her. The next day 
she sent hers for my inspection. Judge of my 
surprise when I found it to be identical in form, 
structure, material, size, and number of eggs. It 
differed only in color, and she informed me that 
she had had hers washed before bringing it over ! 
She further informed me that she had procured 
it some years before from a traveling peddler, and 
had always supposed it to be the product of art, 
and man's device. The same day a small boy on 
seeing my nest remarked, " It 's very pretty. My 
aunt in Saratoga has one just like it." 

This was enough. Whether the same "bird" 
had made all three or not, one thing was evident — 
the specimen was not unique. 

Within five minutes a telegram was journeying 
westward to this effect: "Withdraw all offers for 
the nest." 

Fortunately the message reached its destination 
in time to prevent the joke on me from becoming 
too painful. The advantage of a little experience 
was illustrated by the remark of a distinguished 
Professor of Natural History when the specimen 
was mentioned to him. "It is a fraud," said he. 
" There is a place in Italy where they make these 
things. They put the nests in water impregnated 
with mineral salts, and leave them there until they 
become incrusted, and then sell them to travelers 
and — fools ! " 

The most puzzling thing about the nest is, what 
induced that workman to palm off his nest as he 
did with no attempt to profit by it ? Until this 
problem is solved there remains a bare possibility 
that nature has done unaided in America what she 
frequently does in Italy under the direction of dis- 
ingenuous peasants. 

But, after all, is not a real "live"bird's-nest more 
beautiful and wonderful than any mere dead pet- 
rifaction ever could be ? 


a 1 



By S. Isadore Miner. 

Outside the nursery window, 

Before the spring was old, 
I found one morn, as I chanced to pass. 
Standing straight and tall in the dewy grass, 

A little young man in gold. 

He was a saucy fellow, 

His look was bright and bold ; 
Yet his nod was so blithe when he caught my eye 
That I nodded again as I bade good-bye 
To the little young man in gold. 

Next time I crossed the terrace, 
1 turned me from my way. 
To visit the sprite ; but a marvelous change 
fairy had wrought, and there stood, — oh strange ! 
A little old man in gray ! 




if you are not afraid of old Speckle, I should 
ike to see you take her off yourself. " 
" You will see old Speckle in the barn- 
yard in less than five minutes," 
said Charlie, as he took his 
hat and went out. 

Before long, the people 
in the house heard a 

loud cackling like 
that of a very an- 
gry hen. 
" That must be 
Speckle," said 

Charlie was twelve years 
old; his brother Johnny was two 
years younger. Johnny was a sturdy 
little fellow, and Charlie was not always 
mindful of the two years' difference in their ages. 

One morning in the early fall, the little boys 
were warming their hands over the stove, when 
their mother said: "Johnny, I wish you would go 
to the barn and see if ' old Speckle ' is on her nest 
again. I do not wish her to set this fall, for the 
little chickens would freeze to death. If she is on 
her nest, I wish ;ou would lift her off, and drive 
her out into the barn-yard." 

Johnny went to the barn and found old Speckle 
on her nest in the hay-mow. He climbed up the 
ladder and put out his hand to take her from 
her nest. Old Speckle did not like this. She said, 
" Cluck ! cluck ! " and ruffled up her feathers and 
tried to peck Johnny's hands. 

Then Johnny took off his hat and waved it at 
her, and said, " Shoo ! shoo ! shoo ! " but old 
Speckle would not leave her warm nest for Johnny ; 
so Johnny went into the house and told his mother 
he could not drive old Speckle off, and he was 
afraid to take her up in his hands. 

"Oho!" said his brother Charlie, laughing at 
him. " Before I 'd be afraid of a hen ! " 

"Well," said Johnny, "I don't deny it, and 

*' I suppose Charlie has taken her off the nest. 
He is a brave boy. Old Speckle is a fierce hen." 

Then Charlie came in. 

"Do you hear that hen?" said Chailie. "I 
told you I could take her off from her nest. I 'm 
not afraid of a hen." 

Then Johnny, who had been out, too, spoke up 
and said : 

" '.Most anybody could rake a hen off a nest." 

"Rake a hen off a nest?" repeated Charlie, 
laughing, but looking sheepish. "How do you 
know I did ? " 

Then Johnny told how he knew. 

The barn had both a back door and front 
door. The back door was kept open, and the 
front door was kept closed. As soon as Charlie 
had left the house, Johnny slipped out of the 
house door and in at the back door of the barn. 
He hid in the hay before Charlie had opened the 
front door of the barn. He saw Charlie climb the 



ladder, and saw him wave his hat at old Speckle, 
and say, " Shoo, Speckle, shoo ! " He saw Charlie 
try to take old Speckle off, but she pecked at him 
so defiantly that Charlie was afraid to touch her. 
So he took a long-handled rake, and reached over 
to old Speckle and raked her away from her nest, 
as if she had been a bundle of hay. Old Speckle 
still fought pluckily for the possession of the nest, 
and thrust her head between the prongs of the 
rake in her efforts to reach the eggs. It seemed 
almost cruel in Charlie to drag her farther away 
from them, but as he only pulled steadily it did 
not hurt her in the least. But she was soon con- 

down on the barn floor, and ran out at the door, 
cackling an indignant " Cut ! Cut! Curdar-cut ! " 
as loudly as she could. Charlie went out after her, 
and, while he stopped to fasten the door, Johnny 
ran out at the back door and into the house. 

After this, when Charlie would accuse Johnny 
of being afraid of anything, Johnny would answer, 
"Let me see: I believe I remember you. Are n't 
you the boy who raked the hen off her nest ? " But 
when Johnny's mother heard this taunt, she quietly 
remarked, '"It is not every boy who would think 
of as good a plan as Charlie's." 


By Rosa Evangeline Angel. 

Good-Morning peeped over her eastern gate, 

To see if the children were up ; 
And laughed at a bumblebee coming home late, 

Who was caught in a hollyhock cup. 
Good-Morning has eyes like the glint of the skies 
When they 're bright as the sun and the stars 
mixed together, 
And her lips are so sweet, and her steps are so 
She can dance like a thistledown, fly like a 
You " never have seen her?" Oh, me ! Oh, me ! 
What a dull little sleepy-head you must be ! 

Good-Morning can sing like a brook or a bird ; 

She knows where the fiiries all hide ; 
Some folk, hard of hearing, say they never have 

Her sing, though they often have tried. 
Good-Morning has hair made of sunshine so rare, 

The elves tried to steal it to weave in the 
weather ; 
Which made her afraid, the bonny wee maid, 

To swing on the gate many minutes together. 
You •' never have seen her?" Ah, me! Ah, me! 
What a cross, lazy lie-a-bed you must be ! 


Good-Night is her neighbor, a dear little soul, 

Who swings in a hammock, and not on a gate. 
She half shuts her eyes with a great yawn, so 
It would make an owl laugh, I will venture to 
Good-Night always brings the most wonderful 
To hide in the children's beds, glittering and 
gleaming ! 
Such tales she can tell, and she tells them so well, 
You could listen all night, and believe you 
were dreaming ! 
You " never have heard her? " Oh, me! Oh, me! 
What a small naughty wideawake you must be! 

Good-Night has a house full of beautiful toys, 
That she keeps for the children, — no grown- 
folks are there ; 
And she carries them off, the wee girlies and 
To her magical palace, and, oh, how they stare ! 
Good-Night never frowns when she sees the 
white gowns 
Come trooping to beg for more stories, — the 
dear ! — 

But with kisses and smiles, the time she beguiles, 
And bids them to come again soon, — do you 

You " never have been there?" Ah, me! Ah, me! 
What a very sad, grown-up young chick you 

must be ! 





GOOD-MORROW, my young Summerers, and a 
fair June to you ! Soon my young country-folk 
will be having the rosiest kind of a time, and thou- 
sands upon thousands of young citizens will be 
scampering through fields, rolling down hillsides, 
or splashing into the "shining tumult" of the 

Now, suppose we take up the subject of 


What is this I hear? Are the dolls of this 
nineteenth century now to talk in earnest, laugh 
in earnest, cry in earnest, and, for aught I know, 
cough and sneeze in earnest when they catch cold ? 

And they are not to do all this with little squeak- 
ing sounds, such as have disgraced intelligent dolls 
up to the present date, but with real, human child 
voices, every shade of sound complete? 

This is wonderful, and very hard to believe ; 
yet it is true, I am told. Now, who can explain 
this matter ? 


It appears, my hearers, that the "learned and 
sprightly correspondent, ".whom I quoted for you 
in December last, made a generous error in regard 
to the Russian alphabet. He gave it forty-one 
letters, when in truth it has but thirty-four, after 

This I give you on the excellent authority of 
Nathan Haskell Dole, known to my dear Little 
School-ma'am and the rest of the world as the 
translator of Count Tolstoi's works. Tolstoi, the 
little lady says, is a great Russian novelist. Mr. 
Dole writes to this Pulpit : " The Ecclesiastical 
Slavonic, from which the Russian alphabet was 
derived, had forty-two letters, and literary Russian 
has thirty-four, strictly speaking, though it is com- 

monly enough represented as having thirty-six, 
one letter being a form of i (ee) used only in a 
few church words, and the other still another 
form of the ninth letter, which is also i (called I s 

Besides Mr. Dole's message from Boston, the 
Little School-ma'am has received this from a mili- 
tary friend stationed somewhere on the outskirts 
of civilization : 

" You might tell your friends (and mine), Jack- 
in-the-Pulpit," he says, " that there is a little boy 
here, only forty-two years old, who takes exception 
to a statement in the December number of St. 
Nicholas about the number of letters in the 
Russian alphabet. My recollection of the same, 
re-enforced by a sly glance at my Russian Lexicon, 
is that thirty-six letters only are found in that 
alphabet. This includes all double letters, and the 
three forms of the letter 'i.' Possibly the alpha- 
bet may have grown since 1 studied the language. 
That was in 1867, and twenty years may have made 
changes in alphabets as well as in those who make 
use of them, but an addition of five letters is a large 

Now, my chicks, you who are big may take in 
these facts with the dignity that so well becomes the 
new generation; but you who are little need not 
alter your daily life one jot, unless it be to sigh now 
and then for the poor little Russians who have had 
to learn eight or ten more letters than you did. 


Trenton, N. J. 
Dear Jack : Although the open-air roses are again 
ready to bloom, which proves that this year is nearly half 
gone, it is not too late to mention the fact that the figure 
nine is again on top of the calendar. It has not been 
there for ten years, but now it has come to stay. We, or 
our children, or their children's children, shall see it every 
year until its grand disappearance for nine years at the 
close of the Christmas holidays in 1999. Nine is the 
queerest figure in numbers, anyway, and it is calling 
especial attention to itself nowadays in every letter that 
is written in all parts of the Christian world. 

Yours, respectfully, A Schoolboy. 


Here is Prof. Starr's reply to Ruth Hartzell's 
inquiry, which your Jack read to you last month : 

I have been asked why the metal tanks in the ice-fac- 
tory (see " A Rose in a Queer Place," February St. 
Nicholas) do not burst from the expansion of the freezing 
water within. The tanks are of galvanized iron usually, 
and though strong would yield somewhat to the pressure 
from within. More than this, the covers are loosely 
laid on, and the tanks may not be absolutely filled with 
water. This would allow of expansion upward. Of 
course, the ice expands only while freezing, and, when it 
is cooled much below freezing point, shrinks. So that 
the shrunken block would have no difficulty in slipping 
out of the tank, even if it had formed with the sides of 
the tank bulged out by pressure. To make the removal 
of these cakes still easier, the tank is usually a little 
larger at the top than at the bottom, and the sides gently 
slant downward. 

I hope that this answer may be satisfactory to my 
questioner. Frederick Starr. 



pansies are for thoughts." 

( >il City, Pa. 
Dear Jack : I am a little girl ten years old. I am in 
the Third Reader in school. In my reader there is a piece 
of poetry. I will tell you some of it : 

Preaches to-day, 
Under the green trees, 
Just over the way. 
"Squirrel and song-sparrow, 
Higli on their perch, 
Hear the sweet lily-bells 
Ringing to church. 

How do you like that, Jack ? It is all about you. 

Your friend, Pansy Cooper. 

I like it very much, little Pansy. It is an old 
song, but, like the lily-bells, always new. It came 
straight from the heart of a true poet. Whenever 
you see anything in your Third Reader or any- 
where else as pretty as this poem about Jack-in- 
the-Pulpit, just you read it, Pansy. It will make 
you grow. 


What keen eyes they have ! these busy little 
workers, flying hither and thither, over hill and val- 
ley, in the early spring days. House-hunting, that 
is what they are doing. In at your window, under 
the eaves of the barn, getting in the most in- 
conceivable and, sometimes, unwelcome places. 
Nothing is beneath their notice ; no, not even an 
old, discarded curtain-tassel, as a friend tells me 
who has seen the tassel. 

Perhaps it was once one of the much-prized 
treasures of some small girl, rambling through the 

loose hay, with her arms so full of toys that the 
treasure dropped, and was lost forever to the fond 
eyes of its owner. There it lay, unseen and use- 
less, until, one day, a busy wasp came buzzing 
around the barn-yard, and, being a wasp of high 
aesthetic taste, this odd-looking, pretty-colored 
object in the long grass attracted its attention and 
gave it a most brilliant idea. 

First taking a peep in at the top, it disappeared 
from view, only to reappear at the other end ; then, 
the inspection revealing all that its cultivated taste 
demanded, flying off, with a satisfied buzz, to return 
with a whole colony of its fellow- workers, ready to 
begin on the new home. 

So the wasp and its family worked day after day, 
from early morn until dusk, flying back and forth 
to their tasseled home, first making the cells for 
their eggs and food, then, all being snug and tight, 
hurrying off again to have the store-rooms well 
filled with provisions fur the few who would live 
until another spring. 

All through the summer months sounded their 
energetic, busy hum, telling a tale of lots of work 
to be done and six short months to do it in ! Buzz, 
buzz, buzz! 

Long since the little occupants deserted their 
aesthetic home, while the tassel, with the house still 
complete, reposes in the South Kensington Mu- 
seum of Natural History, a lasting relic of the 
industry of those aesthetic wasps. 

All this true and pretty story has been written 
out for you by M. B. Dickman, and your Jack has 
simply repeated it so that all the congregation may 
have it at the same time. 

<33a<ajij jjjj ijjj 

IMBniBIWIffffBPIlWI MIIIilM i '""' ~ HB L WI J lW i 




By Anne Bigelow Day. 

The Maucly family always keep a box full of caterpillars and worms. 
Is n't that funny ? But, you know, these creatures turn into queer things 

6 3 + 



called cocoons, like the one in the picture. In this form they live for many 
days until their little houses open and they come out butterflies or moths. 

This year the Maudy family expected moths of the kind called Polyphe- 
mus. One morning Peter and Phoebe Maudy went out to the box, which 
they kept in the garden, and in it they found four of the beautiful brownish 
moths just out of their cocoons. There they were, fluttering their wings for 
joy because they felt the warm sunshine for the first time, and troubled only 
because the thin muslin over the top of the box kept them from flying out to 
the flowers near by. 

The children stood looking at their new pets, and suddenly they noticed 
a very strange thing — a number of moths' wings, like the wings of the new- 
comers in the box, lay scattered 
about. They counted six on the 
bench and ten on the ground. 
How did the wings come there ? 
The new moths were quite per- 
fect, every one having its two 
pairs of wings. 

Outside there were no bodies 
to be seen, only wings, wings, 

What had happened ? 

" Chirrup ! chirrup ! " said a saucy-looking robin on a neighboring tree. 
Another of the brown moths flew past, almost brushing Peter's nose. The 
new-comer flew to the box, settled on the muslin, and seemed to be saying 
good-morning to the prisoners. 


Peter and Phcebe stood still, watching. Whir-r-r-r ! Down came Mr. 
Robin. In a second he had snatched up the kind moth in the middle of the 
call, gobbled up his bod)', and left one more pair of brown wings to explain 
how all the other brown wings came there. 

Peter and Phcebe told the robin how naughty he was, but he only looked 
saucier than ever. The children let the new moths fly away, and tucked in 
around their looking-glass the wings of the loving and unfortunate callers. 


(By permission, from Flint's edition of " Harris on Insects Injurious to Vegetation." ) 


Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the 1st of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can not conveniently be 

examined at the office of St. Nicholas. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with contributions 

will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date. 

Naini Tal, India. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little boy nine years 
old, living in the Himalaya mountains. My father is a 
missionary. I like your stories very much, especially 
" Juan and Juanita," " Sarah Crewe," "Two Little Con- 
federates," and " Little Lord Fauntleroy." We always 
read " The Brownies," and like them very much. " We " 
means my sister Nora, eleven years old, and myself. 
We go to the high-schools here in Naini Tal. It is a 
beautiful town up in the mountains. We go down to 
the plains near the river Ganges, in the winter, as it is 
much warmer down there ; and then we come up here 
when it gets very hot below. Our Christmas holidays 
are now nearly over. 

When most of the English people and many natives 
went down, last winter, a lot of bears came through the 

station ; they were seen around everywhere, in people's 
gardens, and near their houses ; a number of them were 
shot, though some were only wounded. One big black 
fellow swam right across the lake, nearly half a mile 
wide. Sometimes leopards come about our houses and 
take away our dogs ; two of our dogs were taken away 
by them. They are very fond of dogs ! One of these 
leopards gobbled up our little dog " Pudge " one night 
last summer. My mamma "just heard one little yelp, 
Pudge stopped barking, and she never barked any more ! 
The leopard got her. Her father was a water-spaniel, 
and her mother was a poodle ; she had long hair, and we 
miss her very much. We have two white mice, which 
run about the house and live in holes in the stone wall. 
This is my first letter to St. Nicholas. 

Karl W . 



Fort Du Chesne, Utah. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have lived at this post for 
more than six months, but not until the other day did I 
have an opportunity to go to the Uintah Indian agency, 
although it is only thirteen miles north from this place. 

I am sure a great many readers of St. Nicholas never 
saw a real Indian, and for that reason I will try and tell 
them what I saw at the agency. 

Uintah is the name of one of the three tribes of Ute 
Indians that live about us. I have not heard what Ute 
means, but suppose it to be the Indian name for some 

This is the time of year for the Bear dance, which is 
quite an important event among the Utes, I think, as 
the dance lasts from seven to eight days, and is held 
every year. The Indians reckon time by the moon. 

The Bear dance is the only dance in which the squaws 
are allowed to take part. The Indians were very oddly 
dressed ; some wore buckskin suits, which were very 
handsomely embroidered with beads, others wore cloth 
of all colors. 

The chief had his face painted with red and blue, and 
his hair was braided and tied at the end with a long fox 
tail. He had a long switch with which he switched the 
Indians if they did not dance. 

The music was made by a lot of bucks (warriors) 
seated on the ground by a sort of wooden table. Each 
buck had a stick which was notched an inch or so 
apart. They were all cut differently so as to make dif- 
ferent sounds ; they had a piece of wood made round 
which they kept rubbing up and down over the other 
piece of wood which rested on the table. They kept 
singing, a low, monotonous chant without any music. 

The Indians had their faces painted. I noticed one 
especially ; his face was painted bright yellow, and he had 
a wreath of fox fur around his head. 

The chief 's son has been at an academy for six years, 
I was told ; but he now refuses to speak a word of 
English, which makes one wonder if Indians ever will be 
civilized. Hoping this is not too long to be printed, 
I remain your loving reader, Kate G. C ■ 

New Haven, Conn. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken you for nearly 
five years, and have gained much amusement and in- 
struction from your pages. 

I live on the banks of a river, and in the summer we 
have great fun swimming, boating, and fishing. 

In our front yard is a large maple-tree, and one night 
last fall we had a very heavy shower. In the morning 
forty-one dead sparrows were picked up under the tree. 
Under a cluster of trees across, the river one hundred 
and seventy-five were found. Tliat storm created great 
havoc among the birds. 

Hoping to see this in the " Letter-box," I am still 
Your loving reader, Frank D. C . 

White Sulphur Springs, Montana Ter. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I live in a little frontier town 
in Montana, where I was born eight years ago. My 
papa has a ranch and lots of sheep, horses, and cattle. 
I like best to live at the ranch and go fishing and play 
at hunting. Sometimes we see deer and antelope there, 
and often prairie-wolves (coyotes) come around and kill 
sheep and lambs. Once my papa shot a bear there. In 
the summer the ground-squirrels are running in and out 
of their burrows nearly all of the time, and they eat 
everything green in the garden. So, when I go there, I 
trap as many as I can with a small steel trap. 

It is great fun to watch the little lambs in the spring; 
sometimes there are two thousand in one flock, and they 

run around in a circle and jump up and roll over in the 
jolliest way. 

There were twin calves at the ranch last summer, and 
I tried to lasso them and ride on their backs, but did not 
succeed very well, though it was fun for me and seemed 
to be, for them. 

Some Indians came into town, a few weeks ago, to sell 
skins of beavers and wolves that they had killed. They 
wore bright-colored blankets and rode Indian ponies. 
A gentleman here bought the beaver skins and had an 
overcoat made. It took twenty to make one coat. 

Your loving reader, MORRILL. 

We take pleasure in showing the following delightful 
letter from two little French friends. We print the letter 
just as we received it : 

St. Louis, Mo. 

Dear St. Nicholas — We are two little girls who 
have thirteen years. We are come from France the 
seventeen septembre, and visit our aunt, who teaches 
English to us. We like it much in America. When 
we are at home we live just outside of Nice and have 
very many of pets. W 7 e have fawns who run in the 
park around our house and 3 ponies, who have for 
names, Bayard, Emperor, Renee, we have also one large 
dog of St. Bernard named Fidele, we liked very much 
the story of Aimee a-s we have been often to Nice. 
We were charmed with Little Lord Fauntleroy, which 
our English governess aided us in reading. We fear 
this letter is too long, so bid you good-bye ; and hope to 
see our letter in print, as it is the first we have ever 
written to you. Your admiring friends, 

Eloise and LuciENNE DE V . 

Phoenix, A. T. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I expect you will be surprised 
to get a letter from " far-away Arizona " ; but my cousin 
has been sending you to me as a present for the last two 
years, and, for about five years before that, my aunt had 
been sending you to me. So I thought it was about 
time to be writing you a letter and telling you how much 
I like you. 

I suppose that you think it must be very hot here, but 
it is not so hot as it is represented to be. We never 
have snow at Phcenix, but the mountains east and north 
are covered with snow. All around the vicinity of 
Phoenix the earth is spotted witli mounds varying in 
height and size. Excavations have been made near 
Tempe (nine miles from Phcenix) by Lieutenant Gush- 
ing of the Smithsonian Institution, and human skeletons 
and many other interesting relics were unearthed. I 
visited the place, and it was very interesting. Thev 
were almost all lying with their heads toward the east, 
and near their hands was a little olla of corn and another 
olla supposed to have contained water. These were the 
provisions (I suspect) that they were going to eat when 
they were on their way to the Spirit Land. 

All the skeletons were laid in a mold of hard substance 
like brick, and some of them had their mouths open. 

. There was also an altar with a skeleton of a little child 
on it. Where all these were unearthed is supposed to 
have been a burial ground. 

There were many more interesting relics, etc., but it 
takes too much space to tell about them. 

It is supposed that this race existed before the Aztecs, 
and it is not known where they went, came from, or 
anything else about them. I could write lots more 
about them, but I know your space is precious. 

I hope I have not already made my letter too long. 
But I thought you might be interested to hear something 
about the mound-builders near Phoenix. Your true 
friend and admirer, Fannie H. B . 

6 3 8 


Sivas, Turkey in Asia. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Sivas is a city of fifty thousand 
inhabitants, composed of Turks, Greeks, and Armenians. 
There are only two American families and one English. 
It is nearly five thousand feet above the sea. There are 
some ruined gateways and towers over five hundred years 
old. The old houses all have flat roofs, and they are 
made of dirt and stones. The government now forbids 
citizens to build flat roofs, because sometimes the roofs 
cave in and bury the people inside, so now they must 
build their roofs of tiles. Very many of the customs 
of the people here are just contrary to the customs of 
America. They leave their shoes at the door and keep 
their fezes on in the house In church or in school they 
sit on the carpets on the floor. When you meet a person 
in the street you turn to the left. When they shoe an ox 
or a donkey, they tie up his feet and make him lie on his 
back. A bride is the servant of the family, and she can 
not talk until her mother-in-law gives her permission. I 
have three bound volumes of the St. Nicholas, and I 
like the stories very much. I am a boy, eleven years 
old. Your loving reader, Luke Crescens H . 

St. Mary's Hall, Burlington, N. J. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken your maga- 
zine ever since it was published, and we are very fond 
of it. 

St. Mary's Hall is a large boarding-school for girls ; 
there are sixty pupils, counting the day-scholars. 

Every afternoon the girls walk out in twos, and one 
day when we were walking through the country, a bull, 
which was feeding in a field near by, tore after the girls, 
who ran screaming in every direction. 

The school is situated on the banks of the Delaware, 
and on summer evenings each girl is allowed to walk 
out with her favorite mate. There is a beautiful chapel 
joining the school, and on Sundays the service sung by 
the girls is largely attended. 

We hope you will print this letter as we have never 
seen any letters from girls at a boarding-school. 

We are very busy here and do not have much time for 
reading, but the St. Nicholas is always welcome. 

Your loving friends, 

Louise McA and Daisy G . 

Jeansville, Pa. 

Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken you since 
1SS0, through the kindness of our uncle. 

We live in the coal regions, and I do not like it very 

I have been down in the mines several times, and it 
is very interesting. 

If I had space I would tell you about the stable in the 
mines. However, I will just give you a short descrip- 
tion of it. 

Imagine going down into the earth about half a mile, 
with your hair standing on end from fright, and at last 
coming to a level tunnel which is called the gangway. 
About a hundred yards in, you come to the stable, which 
is just a large opening at one side, cut out of the solid 
earth. It is full of mules at night, and also rats, — hun- 
dreds of them. Sometimes the poor mules stay all their 
life in the mines and become perfectly blind to light. 
I remain your loving reader, Roy B . 

Canajoharie, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am ten years old, and have 
taken you for six years. I like all your stories, the 
Indian ones especially, because my grandfather has 
lived for a number of years in the Black Hills of Dakota, 
near an Indian Reservation, and has seen several of the 
chiefs mentioned in St. Nicholas, — Red Cloud, Spotted 
Tail, Man-Afraid-cf-his-Horse, and many others. 

1 have a real Indian blanket in which an Indian was 
killed ; also a red pipe-stone battle-ax. My grandfather 
lives very near the place where General Custer was 
killed. I have just been reading " Boots and Saddles," 
an interesting book by Mrs. Custer. 

Affectionately yours, Pliny S. H . 

Bordentown, N. J. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am eight and a half years 
old. I like you very much, and especially the " Bunny 
Stories" and the children's letters. I send this poetry, 
which I wrote myself. 

Your little friend, Grant K . 

The rain was on the window pane, 

The sun was in a fright 

Because he could not find his house, 

That rainy, rainy night. 

The moon was just about to rise, 

But the stars put clown their heads 

In their little beds, 

Until the moon said, " Stars, get up, 

The sun is in a fright 

Because he can not find his house, 

This rainy, rainy night." Grant K . 

We thank the young friends whose names here follow 
for pleasant letters received from them : NinaT. Smith, 
Lotta B. Smith, Nathalie C. Wilson, Hattie Spencer, 
Chester, Fannie II. K.. Lulu A. L., L. B., M. L. and 
E. B., Mattie W. N., Willis J. Hoyt, May E., S. Isabel 
Stahl, Florence Osborn, Emily Clary, Dora S., Jessie G. 
and Lizzie S., Belle Cady, S. W. F., C. R. H., j. W. L., 
Florence Thayer, Edith N. Jones, Elizabeth Y. F. V., 
Grace Oakes, A. M. G., Harriet B. MacF., Kathleen 
H. Lovett, Percival Delafield, Ida C. J., Sam Chapin, 
Julia Jackson Chapin, A. E. J. , Terecita and Juanita, Nan- 
nie W. Cotten, Lillian A. Sturtevant, Bessie Smith, M. 
Crane, G. K. P., Helen Porter, Mabel E. Dibble, Mabel 
and Jessie Henderson, Laura May Hadley, Daisy L. 
Brown, Lulu P. Manning, Marv C, Beatrice, Grace 
Elser, Fay Turner, Herbert G., Helen C. Ward, E. W. C, 
B. B. W., Robert Bond, Edith Whitmore, Enid W. D., 
Floyd R, Macy, Ellen G. Barbour, Cleveland Smith, 
Kate Alexander, Emma L. Campbell, John D. G. O.. 
Edith Leslie, Gertrude Allen, A. T. Pro'uty, Clifford M. 
Balkam, Orville A.Howard, G. Dyer, Marie R. K., Ellen 
George, Elsie Bleecker, Florence B., Judith C. Yerplanck 
and Marie B., E. Downs, Olive M", Frances H., May 
S. D., E. Holmes, Wm. MacKenzie, Eddie A. B., 
Beatrix D., Maude J. and Alice S., Paul Waller, Alice 
H. and Amanda G., Bertha Chase, Emily Wolff, Mary 

E. Hale, H. R. Edgar, Alfred A. Bell, Kate Gordon, 
Lloyd R. Coleman, Jr., Bessie M. Cooper, Dorothy F., 
Edith Edwards, L." Thorn, Jennie Boies, Kate Peet, 
Eula Lee Davidson, Nell M. T., Hattie A. J., Edward 

F. Johnson, and Luther J. Hamilton. 



3. Nectarine. 
Cherries, 8. 

Anagrams i. Oranges. 2. Watermelon 
granate. 5. Apricots. 6. Pineapple. 7. 
9. Strawberries. 10. Cranberries. 

Word-squares I. 1. Dinah. 2. Irene 3. Nerve, 
5. Heels. II. 1. Hagar. 2. Agile. 3. Gibes. 4. Alert. 
III. 1. Ethel. 2. Tiara. 3. Hates. 4. Erect. 

1. Jesse. 2. Ellen. 3. Slant. 4. Sense. 5. Enter. 

2. Ozone 3. Mopsa. 4. Unset. 5. Seats. 
A Book Puzzle. 


Ml ,'■' P " ■- " 



SELF H!l» 

* . - 


a-.. ■■ : - h 

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TEH l|/„ 




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H - *. S B R INK E R 



*om jo 'Scrap bag 


4. Pome- Double Diagonals. Diagonals, from left to right. Memorial 
Peaches. Day; from right to left, Emancipated. Cross-words : 1- Mis- 
construe. 2. Meerschaums. 3. Remonstrate. 4. Disorganize. 

4 Anvil. 5. Superscribe. 6. Constituted. 7. Reappearing. S. Disannulled. 

5. Rests. 9. Intermeddle. 10 Dendritical. 11. Deuterogamy. 
5. Lasts. IV. A Pentagon, i. L. 2. Tar. 3. Tacit. 4. Laconic. 5. Rin- 

V. 1. Comus. die. 6. Tiled. 7. Cede. 

Single Acrostic. Primals, Hans Christian Andersen. Cross- 
words: 1. Handy. 2. Andre. 3. Natal. 4. Sugar. 5. Clime. 
6. Humor. 7. Rumor. S. Idler. 9. Sagas. 10. Titus, n. Irene. 
12. Alter. 13 Novel. 14. Adams. 15. Nicot. 16. Demon. 17. Ember. 
iS. Ruble. 19. Scope. 20. Epoch. 21. Noose. 
Charade. Dynamite. 

Numerical Enigma. "Pride only helps us to be generous; it 
never makes us so, any more than vanity will help us to be witty." 
Pi, Thou pulse of joy, whose throb beats time 

For daisied field, for blossoming spray ! 
To dance of leaf and song-bird's chime 
Set all the prose of life to rhyme. 
Ring in the May ! 


Diamond, i. M. 2. Rot. 3. Red 

Double Acrostic Primals, Decoration Day; finals, Decora- 
tion Ode. Cross-words: i. DepIumeD. 2. EscaladE. 3. Chol- 
eric 4. OristanO. 5. RebutteR. C, AnaphorA. 7. ThickseT. S. Illi- 
manl. 9. OratoriO. 10 NatatioN. n. L)olorosO. 12. AsteroiD. 
13. YokematE 

Words Within Words, i. S-hake-r. 2. P-rover-b. 3. P-ledge-s. 
4. P-aster-n. 5. S-tag-e. 6. M-iser-y. 7. F-oregon-e. 8. N-odd-y. 
9. G-ruc-1. 10. P-rice-s. 11. L-otter-y. 12. B-ours-e. 

To oi'K Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the March Number were received, before March 15th, from Maud E. Palmer — Paul Reese — 
Russell Davis — Mary L. Gerrish — " Infantry " — K. G. S- — M. D. M. — Aunt Kate, Jamie and Mamma — Pearl F. Stevens — " Mamma, 
Aunt Martha and Sharley " — Willoughby — Jo and I — Emily and Annie Dembitz — J. L. C. and L. H. M. 

Answers to Puzzles in the March Number were received, before March 15th, from Margaret Lacbenour, 2 — Ethelind, 4 — 
A. Ashhurst, 1 — C Densmore Curtis, 1 — Annie R. F., 1 — May Martin, 1 — Dolly Chandler, 1 — Henry Guilford, S — Clara O., 7 — 
Maxie and Jackspar, 10— Emma V. Fish, 1 — Edith Watt. 5 — Ida C. Thallon, 10— May Hebbard, 1 — A. L. Babbitt. 1 — Paul P. 
Lyon, 1 — " Nig and Mig," 10 — J. R. Sharp, 2 — Jennie, Mina and Isabel, 5 — "R. M. A,," 4 — Ray Swain and Wildrick Lentz, 3 — 
Effie K. Talboys, 7 — Arthur B, Lawrence, 5 — Edward Hitch, 1 — E. de F. and M. E. Heald, 1 — Anna G. Gilpin, 2 — W. N. S., 5 — 
Clara and Emma, 2 — Horace H. Francine, 2 — Lester and Gertie, 1 — Edith J. Sanford, S — Eva Kennahan, 2 — " Nodge," S — Angie 
C. Lyon, 4 — "May and 79," 5 — Charles C. Norris, 3 — Edwin W. Fullam, 3 — "A. Fiske and Co.," 10 — Joslyn Z. and Julian C. 
Smith, 4 — Nellie L. Howes, 6 — L. H. F. and "Mistie," 7— Mathilde, Ida and Alice, 8 — Mabel C. Bird, 1 — " Tom, Dick and Harrie," 
9 — M. B., 6 -P. F., 6. 

Diamond, i. M. 2. Rot 3, Redan. 4. Modicum. 


6. Nut. 7. M. 

Easy Greek Cross. I. 1. Crab. 2. Roll. 3. Aloe. 


II. 1 Barb. 2. Anil. 3. Rile 4. Blew. III. 1. Blew 


^. Ever. 4. Were. IV. 1. Wire. 2. Ebon. 3. Road. 


V, 1. Were. 2. Even. 3. Rend. 4. Ends. 

Syncopations. Inauguration. 1. pla-l-nt. 2. po-N-e. 3. m-A-ud. 
4. d-LT-o. 5. lod-G-e. 6. la-U-d 7. p-R-ig. 8. p-A-in. 9. s-T-olid. 
10. la-I-rd. 11. m-O-use. 12. la-N-ce. 


Over my Jirst the school-boy moaning toils, 

Puzzling in vain his weary aching head ; 
My secojiahid the feared Armada's spoils 

(But 't is in French its name must now be said). 
When comes my zoholc, radiant with sun and shower, 

The boy forgets my Jirst in happy play ; 
My second, all unconscious of its power, 

But gleams and sparkles through the sluggish day. 


I. From 1 to 9, a small, spicy berry; from 2 to 10, a great artery 
proceeding from the heart; from 3 to n, having power to grind; 
from 4 to 12, a city of Prussia; from 5 to 13, a kind of tea ; from 6 
to 14, a name found in the first chapter of Numbers, the ninth 

verse; from 7 to 15, the title of a poem by Keats; from 8 to iff, 

From 1 to 8, a poet who died on June 15th, 1844 ; from 9 to 16, 
the name of one of the apostles whose festival occurs on June nth. 

II. From 1 to 9, a large bird; from 2 to 10, a musical drama; 
from 3 lo 11. pulverized sugar candy; from 4 to 1:, an insect; from 

5 to 13, an animal valued for its fur; from 6 to 14.. common; from 7 
to 15. to pro'iibit; from S to 16, to call out. 

From 1 to 8, an American battle fought on June 28th, 177S ; from 
9 to 16, a European battle fought on June iSth, 1S15. 

CYRIL deane. 


I. 1. A vehicle. 2. Governed 3. One who has the superintend- 
ence of a museum. 4 One of the United States. 5. Recaptured. 

6 Cupolas. 7. Moved swiftly 

II. 1. A vulgar fellow. 2. A name by which a pagoda is some- 
times called. 3. A piece of furniture. 4. To excite. =.. Presented. 
6. To prevent by fear. 7. To spread, as new-mown hay. 

F. s. 


I. ACROSS: i. A sprite. 2. A river. 3. An insect. Downward: 

1, A feminine name. 2. Mankind- 3. To caress. 

II. Across: i An animal. 2. To look. 3. Appropriate. Down- 
ward: 1. A serpent. 2. A body of water. 3. Precise. 

Ill Across: i. The name of a tragedy. 2. A portion of time 
3. A verb. Downward: 1. A feminine name. 2. An implement 
useful to sailors. 3. An English theological writer. 

IV. Across: i. Devoured. 2. Gained. 3. Enticed. Down- 
ward: 1. An implement. 2. Part of the body. 3. Finis. 

When the four first words described in each of the four word- 
squares are read in connection, they will form a single word of twelve 
letters which means " strongly affected." CYRIL deane. 




In the accompanying illustration each of the 
ten small pictures suggests the name of a rose. 
What are the ten names? 


A voglr pareslpa het nocr ; 

Het wedmoa karl locras eth norm ; 
Eth wed tnselisg rove 
Het sagsr dan teh rolvec 

Sit eujn — nad het rumsem si nobr ! 

Het taindar sohur nodar 
Tihw ginluscret wesrlof het hotrn ; 
Eth tosf zesrebe vohre 
Het sagrs dan teh vecrol ; 
1st neju — nad het musrem si robn ! 

MRS. H. C. S. 


The central letters, reading downward, will 

spell the name of a famous general. 

Cross-words: i. Complaining. 2. Continuing 

for a long time. 3. One of the planets. 4. A short 

sleep. 5. In apple. 6. A vehicle. 7. A weapon. 

A large shallow dish. 9. A walk for amusement. 



My first, a blossom white as snow 

With pistil all of gold ; 
My next an overcoat will show, 

For keeping out the cold: 
My third, if you are in a fright, 

Will overspread your cheek ; 
The laundress keeps my fourth in sight 

The first of every week; 
My last a bird you surely know, — 

A near relation to the crow. 

My initials, unless I 'm mistaken, 

Will show you a tricksy wight 
Who always is plotting some mischief; 

My finals % his weapon of might. 

" z. y. x." 


1. In pattern. 2. A word used in old records meaning a kind of 
customary payment by a tenant. 3. Sherry. 4. Occupants. 5. 

A species of spider. 6. A period of a hundred years. 7. The 
Scottish name for a young ox. 8. Cunning. 9. In pattern. 



Across: i. A certain order of architecture. 2. Surfeited. 3. 
Pertaining to a foot. 4. A firm, hard substance. 5. A portable 

Downward, i. A letter from Russia. 2. A bone. 3. To doze. 
4. A short notice, 5. Resigns. 6. Epoch. 7. A small boy. S. 
A note in music. 9. A letter from India. 

F. s. F. 


To incite. 2. Languished. 3. Idle. 4. Remnant. 
6. Pertaining to a duke. 7. Fishes of a certain kind. 


In each of the nine following sentences there is concealed _ the 
name of a flower; the meaning, or sentiment, of the flower is given 
in italics in the same sentence. When the nine flowers are rightly 
selected, and placed one below the other, in the order here given, 
the initial letters will spell a title often- bestowed upon June. 

1. Did you hear us humbly beseech the governor to pardon the 
prisoner ; and did he not listen to us with great docility .' 

2. In the play of " Hamlet " I assume the title role ; and Erminie 
will perform "Ophelia." We shall endeavor to beware of over- 

3. Charles was affronted when I begged him not to drink ; but I 
said, " excess is dangerous." 

4. When I have heard Caleb, on yearly missions, preach on the 
beauty of charity, and then know how often he refuses to aid the 
poor, I think there is much hypocrisy in him. 

5. I told William other worthy persons had had their secret love 

6. Do not ever use deception, Carlos. I, ere this, have discovered 
that frankness is always best. 

7." Some of the knights had endeavored to discover the bitter 
truth concerning some rumors. 

8. I hate a selfish person, and do not like to see one give way to 

9. I strive to share Belle's burdens and to assuage her grief. 


<>»«A'karforE i£<Mc*r-&.* 





Vol. XVI. 

JULY, i S S< 

No. 9. 



[Concerning which Mrs. Clarissa Hardwick 
relates as follows, to certain youthful listeners, on 
the 4th of July, 183 1] : 

You 'VE all heard me talk often enough about 
my sister Nancy, and about Hardwick's Choice — 
the place where we two lived when we were little, 
with our Grandpapa Hardwick. 'T was a great 
estate of ten thousand acres or so, as good ground 
as any in all Maryland. And a fine old house it 
was, too, that we lived in, built after the old-fash- 
ioned plan in Grandpapa's father's time, out of 
bricks that came all the way across from England. 
We 'd all the space we wanted in our big hall, to 
play at graces, or go over one's dancing steps on 
a cold rainy day, with plenty of elbow-room for 
everybody, upstairs and down. — though, for that 
matter, 't was more than Nancy and I durst ever 
do, I promise you, to stick out our elbows when 
Mrs. Becky was round. Then, besides, for sum- 
mer we had the finest spreading shade-trees and 
rose-hedges, and the pleasantest garden in all 
those parts, — or in the whole world, according to 
our notion ! Everything, inside the house and out, 
was always well tended and in best order, for 

Copyright, 1S89, by The Century Co. 

Grandpapa Hardwick was mighty particular in 
that respect. All must be just so, to please him ; 
and Mrs. Becky was ever on the lookout to keep 
things straight. 

Nancy and I had lived there all our lives, being 
no more than babies — both of us — when our 
mother and father died. We 'd neither aunts nor 
uncles, nor first-cousins, for you see our father 
was Grandpapa Hardwick's only child (excepting 
Uncle Roger, who was drowned going across the 
ocean to school in France), and our mamma never 
had any brothers nor sisters either. So as to elders 
and betters, there was nobody belonging to us but 
Grandpapa and Mrs. Becky. She was some far 
kin to Grandpapa, though we never called her 
cousin, — just Mrs. Becky, as did 'most everybody 
else. Mrs. Becky Binns was her name, and she 
had been housekeeper at Hardwick's Choice ever 
since her husband died, long before our papa was 
married. A good soul and a very deserving woman, 
too, for all she was a trifle melancholic and given 
to the vapors sometimes; but then, as she often 
said, she 'd been through a deal of trouble in her 
young days, and there was no telling but what 
worse might happen yet before she died. How- 
ever, she was very good to Nancy and me, and we 
set great store by her, in our turn. Besides the 
housekeeping she taught us our lessons, — read- 
ing, writing, and figures, — as far as her knowledge 
went; but Mrs. Becky didn't set up to be very 
book-learnt, and she used to call it a crying shame 
that Grandpapa would never have masters for us 
in French and music; but Grandpapa only said 
" Pooh, pooh ! " that we would know what was 
needful for our sex, and more. He wanted no fine 
ladies about him. he said ; and as for our tinkle- 
tinkling on the spinet from morning till night, 
't would certainly give him St. Yitus's dance to 

All rights reserved. 





hear it. He was very kind, for all that, and fond 
of us in his way, though we knew well enough he 
must be obeyed no less. When he said " Clarissa ! " 
or " Ariana ! " in his short, sharp tone, we were 
quick to mind our manners, I can tell you. In- 
deed, nobody could ever have guessed by listening 
that my christened name was Clarissa Harlowe, 
or Nancy's, Ariana, if Grandpapa had n't been 
vexed with us now and then. They always called 
me Cis, in those days, which did well enough for a 
little brown thing like me. As for "Nancy," 
there 's nothing prettier than that, and nobody 
could ever think of my Nancy, I 'm sure, by any 
long, dismal title. She was just as pretty as her 
every-day name, and quick-witted, with the win- 
ningest ways, such as always made her peace when 
she chose, after any prank of mischief. We were 
different as could be in looks, she and I — even her 
hair was as short and curly all over her head as 
mine was long and straight ; and it shows how apt 
people are to be discontent with what nature gives 
'em that Nancy used to be always combing and 
combing her hair out smooth, and I a-trying, con- 
trariwise, to make mine curl. 

All the time that Nancy and I were good big 
children the war with England — what you now 
call the Revolution — was going on ; and as 
Grandpapa was very warm for American inde- 
pendence, as well as all our neighbors and friends 
on the same side, why we thought and heard 
enough of it at Hardwick's Choice. It seemed to 
me, when I was turned twelve years old, or there- 
about, that there had been nothing but war, 
war, all my life long — and so it well-nigh was, to 
be sure. Almost the very first thing that I re- 
member was poor Mrs. Becky bemoaning the 
want of her tea, and all the talk and hubbub of 
that matter. The patriotic folks, like Grandpapa 
Hardwick, would n't have tasted a drop for any- 
thing in this world ; but as for Mrs. Becky, I 
reckon 't was as Grandpapa said in his sarcastical 
way. He said that he believed truly one-half the 
women on earth, gentle and simple, high and 
low, all the same, would sooner choose their tea- 
pot even with a tempest inside of it than the freest 
country sun ever shone on — with peace and 
plenty, to boot. He 'd a mighty keen, sarcastical 
way with him, sometimes, had Grandpapa, and 
when he took on that tone, and tapped his silver 
snuff-box so sharp and quick with his fore- 
finger, why then 't was never anything but "Ay, 
sir ! " with Mrs. Becky, and her best curtsy be- 
sides ; but she grumbled not a bit less behind his 
back. Many 's the time I 've heard her wish for 
one of those chests of good tea that the Boston 
people emptied into the water, and it did seem a 
sinful waste, maybe to more than one poor old 

peaceable body, who loved their comforting strong 
dish now and again, a vast deal more than they hated 
King George. I was right sorry for Mrs. Becky, 
drinking her raspberry-leaf tea with a wry face — 
just for the name of tea, I do believe, and because 
she 'd have something hot enough to pour out in 
her saucer ; but as for Nancy and me, we wanted 
nothing better than good cow's-milk, and Grand- 
papa drank the same with a sharp dash of brandy, 
'most always, to keep the coldness of it from hurting 
his stomach. 

So after that, it was the Boston port-bill fore- 
most on the tapis (as French folks say) and then 
the battle of Lexington ; after which it seemed 
that amongst Grandpapa and his friends nothing 
was talked of but fighting, and raising troops, and 
arming men — with such warlike consultations, 
day in and out. Everybody knew, from Bunker 
Hill on, that war was fairly begun ; and so it con- 
tinued, till presently, when I was quite a sizable 
little girl and old enough to remember plain, came 
the Declaration of Independence at Philadelphia. 

Grandpapa Hardwick was in the best of humors, 
I promise you, when he heard that great news, 
and would have us all, big and little, drink success 
to the new government and confusion to its en- 
emies, in his best Tokay wine. And so we did ; 
only Mrs. Becky, for all she could not refuse the 
toast, was very low-spirited and shook her head 
dismally, saying she hoped Grandpapa's cousin, 
Mr. Charles Carroll, of Carrollton, and the other 
gentlemen with him in this business might come 
off better than the rebels in Virginia a hundred 
Years ago, who were all hanged up in chains for 
pretty much the same thing — as she 'd many a 
time heard her grandfather tell of seeing with 
his own eyes when he was a little lad. To that 
Grandpapa said that a hundred years made a vast 
deal of difference in what might be dared, — ay! 
and done, too ; and when Mrs. Becky, sighing in a 
doleful way, said 't was a sad risk — besides being 
beyond Scripture, no less — to turn against the 
king, why then Grandpapa cried out loud till it 
made everybody fairly jump, "The King! Zounds, 
madame ! what king ? and by what right and title ? 
The true king was chased out of Scotland with a 
price on his head, this thirty years ago. I '11 be 
hanged if I know what 's become of him ! " says 
Grandpapa, " and if I owe any faith to a set of in- 
terloping Dutchmen, I 'm a Dutchman myself! " 

Then, as for Mrs, Becky, she just said, "Ay, sir," 
with never another word. 1 was too little to know 
the meaning of it all, that time, but I found out 
after a while when I learnt to read all about Prince 
Charlie and the battle of Culloden, and under- 
stood how 't was that Grandpapa Hardwick nat- 
urally turned from a Jacobite into a fiery, hot 


republican. Folks say that extremes meet, and I 
reckon that was the way of it, pretty much, with 
him, as well as with many more old cavalier settlers 
in Maryland and Virginia. So after that the war 
went on, with a mighty talk, and telling of this 
battle or that, and of General George Washington, 
and the fine, gallant Marquis Lafayette, with those 
other Frenchmen that came under him to help the 
good cause of freedom. True, we saw no more of 
'em at Hardwick's Choice than we did of the red- 
coats on t' other side — nor anything of sure-enough 
war; for 'twas an out-o'-way part of the country from 
any fighting. I Ve set more store by the blessing 
of that since being an old woman than Nancy and 
I did then. We used to grieve mightily about it, 
after we got old enough to take an interest ; but if 
we did n't see much of the great goings-on we heard 
a plenty. There were several neighbor old gen- 
tlemen who, like Grandpapa, were past their fight- 
ing strength, so stayed at home and sent money 
instead ; and never a day passed that one or 
another did n't fetch something to talk about with 
Grandpapa over his wine in the big dining-room. 
'T was Squire Parley, or Captain Puffanblow, or 
old Colonel MacGrumble — or maybe all three at 
once; never thinking of Nancy and me there on 
our crickets with our samplers before us, taking 
in every word. 

Grandpapa gave the most of any, I do believe ; 
and that, not only in money to the last penny he 
could spare, but of everything else besides ; and a 
busy time that was for everybody on Hardwick 
Plantation. There was but little sale for the to- 
bacco then ; 't was 'most all stored up in the hogs- 
heads, year after year, till the war was over, when 
a fine price it sold for, to be sure ; but there were 
many things besides tobacco that we made at 
Hardwick. It was a great big estate, kept orderly 
running (as was the common custom of those 
times) not from without, but inside, in a snug and 
sheltered fashion that folks have half forgot the 
way of now-a-days. We 'd the best blacksmith, the 
best carpenter, the best tanner, at Hardwick's 
Choice of all the country-side, as was commonly 
said by everybody, with weavers and shoemakers 
good as the best. You see, 't was nothing uncom- 
mon before the war for the poorer sort of comers- 
over to this country to be sold from the English 
ships at the price of their passage-money, for a 
certain space of time. It seems a cruel custom to 
look back upon, but we never thought so then. 
They were called " redemptioners," because they 
redeemed their freedom by their labor and good 
conduct. — not like the poor blacks, in slavery for- 
ever; and some of the very best working tenants 
and handicraftsmen on his land had Grandpapa 
Hardwick bought in this way from the ships, one 


time or another. That showed he was not the 
hard master that some people would have made 
him out, for all a bit sharp-spoken and set in his 
ways, else they 'd not have stayed so contentedly 
when the service term was done. There they were 
when the war came ; and very good English work- 
ers the most of 'em turned out to be, and pretty 
busy Grandpapa kept them, with everybody else, 
black and white, in those days. Every now and 
then 't would be a cart-load of home made blank- 
ets, and shoes, and rolls of cloth, and warm thick 
stockings started off to Annapolis, to be sent from 
there to the soldiers fighting 'way off yonder some- 
where, under General Washington or somebody. 
Spinning the wool was the women's business, and 
a vast deal of it to be done. Nancy and I learnt 
to spin on the big wheel, and very fine sport we 
thought it at first, though after a while, when it 
came to a task of so many cuts a day, why, then 
maybe we found it no such merry matter. We 'd 
our share of the knitting, too, and Grandpapa was 
mightily pleased to see us at it. He used to pat 
us on our heads and say, "That 's right, that 's 
right, my lassies! Knit away! We'll knit up 
this business yet ; ay ! that will we ! let the Brit- 
ishers try hard as they please to ravel out our 

So then we clicked away, with needles fairly 
flying, feeling mighty proud, though a man's long 
stocking to garter above the knee was no little bit 
of work, I can tell you. 

Well, the days, weeks, and months passed along 
till Nancy was near sixteen and I turned fourteen 
years old, both of us grown big girls and up to all 
kinds of fun and mischief; but still the war was n't 
ended. As I tell you, we 'd heard and talked a 
vast deal more of it than we 'd ever seen. The 
horror and misery of fighting and wounds and 
death had all passed us by afar, oft" yonder. Hard- 
wick's Choice was a home worth having, for all 
Mrs. Becky's vapors and the master's sharp tongue 
now and again. In spite of these, and the spin- 
ning and the knitting, I do think we 'd have lived 
happy as the day was long if it had n't been for 
Grandpapa's coat. 'T was a brand-new coat. — 
and put on for the very -first time just that day we 
heard of the battle of Lexington, — made out of 
the best blue English cloth, with fine gilt buttons. 
Such cloth was both scarce and high, later on ; but 
I don't think that was Grandpapa's main reason 
for wearing the same coat so long as he did, for, 
you see, he might easily have had a whole new 
suit of homespun, such as many gentlefolks wore 
in those hard times, — even the grand army-officers 
themselves, — if he had chosen. But he made a 
vow that very first day, like the old-time folks we 
read about, with a great pinch of snuff upon it, 




too, that he 'd wear that same coat, as long as 
't would hold together on his back, till the war was 
ended, one way or the other. Maybe it was for 
setting the example that he first took up such a 
notion ; for everybody knew how much he gave 
to the good cause, and that his going so, year after 
year, was but willing self-denial and nothing else. 
If all other rich people had done the like, — wear- 
ing the old clothes and giving the new ones to our 
brave soldiers, — maybe the war would n't have 
lasted as long as it did, nor Grandpapa's blue coat 
either. However, there were precious few so much 
in earnest as he ; so the years went by, and the 


coat got worse and worse, — faded and patched and 
mean-looking, — whilst all the time Nancy and I 
were getting older and more high-notioned, till we 
hated the sight of it more every day. 

Perhaps we needed a take-down to our pride, 
for we were mightily set up (as was more common 

with gentlefolks of those days than now) about 
being Hardwicks of Hardwick's Choice, as Mrs. 
Becky and all the house-people, white and black, 
used to remind us, with a grand air twenty times 
a day ever since we could take it in. Then, after 
all, 't is only nature the world over, for lassies at 
fourteen and sixteen to set store by fine clothes and 
the brave looks of things. They 've just got their 
eyes open, so to speak, to the outside of this life, 
and won't have learnt yet a while to tell the inside 
worth, hid maybe often enough under a patched 
old coat or frock. So in the matter of Grandpapa's 
coat we said to each other that patriotism and self- 
denying, and a good example to one's neighbors, 
were all very fine things; but we wished all the 
same he 'd get a new coat, if only to wear on 
Sundays. True, we ourselves were very content 
with homespun linsey for every-day, but Mrs. 
Becky made out wonderfully for our best frocks 
from the great chests of clothes stored away up- 
stairs by dear knows how many Hardwick ladies 
dead and gone before our time. There were bro- 
cade silks and sarcenets, and fine paduasoy petti- 
coats, and quilted sacks, and all the best stuffs you 
might want, to be turned and made over, a la 
mode, for twenty years to come : and very grand 
we felt a-rustling in them, like any peacocks, to be 
sure, — never knowing till long afterward how un- 
suited such were to the likes of our age. But, 
dear me ! dear me ! what was the use of silks and 
satins and shining gold lace (as we used to say in 
private to each other) with Grandpapa right beside 
us, on Sundays at church, and on Christmas Day 
and Easter, and at the dancing-school, — always 
dressed in just the same outlandish fashion, year 
in and out ? He was a very elegant, high-quality 
looking old gentleman, was Grandpapa, and no 
mistaking that: straight as a dart and with a 
mighty dignified way about him, though not above 
a middle height, and very spare in body. I re- 
member now how taken aback I was to find out 
by chance one day, when I was none so little, either, 
that he was not the tallest and biggest man in the 
world, as I 'd all along believed. His hair was 
white and thick all over his head ; his mouth was 
tight-shutting and firm, as if made to tell people 
what they must do, or must n't ; his eyes were 
mighty sharp and keen, with a vast many little 
wrinkles all round them, specially when he looked 
hard at you, and that was right often. But still 
there was some times a funny, laughing spark, 'way 
down deep inside, and then we knew that we 'd 
nothing to be afraid of. Nancy and I were proud 
enough of him, and fond, too, in such a proper and 
respectful way as was then thought seemly in 
young folks toward their elders and betters; but 
we could n't be proud of the old ragged coat. 




When it first began to break and give 'way at 
the elbows, and Grandpapa called on us to mend 
it, we were at great pains to match the color of the 
cloth and the thread, as well as to hide the stitches 
and make all smooth, best fashion. Nancy was 
"knowledgeable" and 
quick at her needle, as 
she was with everything 
else, and I must needs 
always have my share at 
helping. So, betwixt us, 
we put on, that time, two 
as pretty patches as you 
'd wish to see, so that 
even Grandpapa praised 
them a heap. But after 
a while, when the cloth 
wore away into new holes 
all round those very 
patches, and down the 
front and on the shoulders 
besides, — why, then we 
were not so careful with 
our mending, because (as 
Nancy said) the better 
the coat was made to look 
the longer Grandpapa 
would wear it. Moreover, 
said she, there was the 
old saying that everybody 
knew, " Patch by patch is 
very good housewifery ; 
but patch upon patch is 
downright beggarly " ; 
and for all we must do 
what Grandpapa told us, 
she, for her part, was not 
a-going to waste any more 
" stitchery " than she 
could help, upon it. 

Dear me ! I 'm afraid 
we were two very naughty 
girls, as well as uppish and 
full of false pride — for 
the crooked patches, and 
the puckerings, and the 

great long stitches we put on that coat, have made 
me blush to think of, a many a time since. How- 
soever, Grandpapa Hardwick never noticed, at all, 
nor took any of those hints. He was n't going to put 
his coat in the rag-bag yet a while to please two 
fine misses, nor anybody else — not he, I prom- 
ise you ; so we 'd only the vexation of seeing it look 
worse than need have been, after all, besides being 
scolded by Mrs. Becky for our carelessness. 

Now, it was in the fall of the year 1781, soon 
after Nancy's sixteenth birthday, when the dan- 

cing-school ball came off at Folkstown, three miles 
from Hardwick's Choice. We 'd been going to the 
dancing-school a whole year, Nancy and I, along 
with the other girls of that neighborhood and the 
boys that were too young for soldiering. A merry 


time we had of it, too, — war or no war, — and our 
master was as elegant a French gentleman as ever 
stepped a minuet. His name was Monsieur Tissot, 
and he had come to this country with General 
Lafayette in the year 1777, to help fight the Brit- 
ish. However, at the battle of Monmouth he was 
shot and crippled in his right shoulder; so then, 
as he said, right wittily we all thought, he laid 
down his arms and took to his legs — though not 
to run away on 'em, either. He was well enough 
pleased with America to stay on a while longer. 

6 4 8 



There he came to Folkstown and set up dancing- 
school— and a more genteel, courtly-mannered 
gentleman never was seen, even at Paris, as Grand- 
papa himself said, who had been there and knew. 

We met once a fortnight for our lesson in the 
big assembly room at the Folkstown Inn, or Ordi- 
nary, as we used to call it ; with all the towns- 
people looking on, and country folks besides, as 
many as chose to come and see their youngsters 
learn the steps — so that, for numbers, 't was 'most 
like a public ball every time. No end of fine, 
fashionable figures Monsieur taught us, besides 
the minuet, with elegant deportment in general, 
after the latest court mode. 'T was heads up and 
shoulders down, to be sure, and elbows out of 
other people's way; and as for the curtsy — well, 
if you want to see it, young ladies — there now ! 
If I am an old woman past sixty, let any of you 
show me the like of that. Well, well ! it 's over 
and done now ; but we 'd fine times whilst it lasted. 
Nancy and I went always in the coach, with Mrs. 
Becky to see after our pretty behaving, and 'most 
every time Grandpapa would come, too. on horse- 
back, to look on and talk over war news with the 
elders, and see us safe home again by eight o'clock. 

At last. Monsieur Tissot said he had taught us 
all he could. He was going to Annapolis to open 
a grand school for the fine city folks ; and so we 'd 
invitations out for a sure-enough ball — a grand 
parting ball, with half the country, old and young, 
bid to it, and a supper, and the best music in all 
those parts. Such a talk and a getting ready as there 
was ! But you can figure it to yourselves pretty 
well, I reckon, for fifty years or so makes no great 
odds that I can see in the nature of youngsters. 
'T is pretty much the same in every time and coun- 
try ; but you 've no such contriving and smarten- 
ing up of old clothes to keep you busy in these 
days, for a seven years' war makes a heap of differ- 
ence in the matter of new ribbons and such settings 
off. I can tell you. However, maybe we enjoyed 
it none the less for that reason. I know that 
Nancy and I had lively enough frolicking over our 
finery and preparations ; and Mrs. Becky, too, for 
all she often said that such doings were downright 
sinful waste of time, and balls the old Satan's main 
opportunities — why, even Mrs. Becky would have 
us looking our best, and herself no less, to boot. 
However, we were no little set-back whenever we 
thought of Grandpapa wearing the old coat, as we 
knew he was going to do. He 'd more than one 
coat laid by in his great cedar chest-of-drawers 
vastly better, though older, than that ; but, you see, 
there was his vow and the war not over yet ; and 
as for his wearing any other one now, to please our 
notions, we knew 't was no use a-looking for any such 
thing. And then, to make bad worse, what should 

happen on the very morning before the ball, but 
Grandpapa must come in from his ride round the 
plantation with a great big new rent just burst out 
in the back behind, from the collar down to the 

" Well, lassies," cries he, loud and lively, like as 
if 't was n't anything dreadful at all, "there 's a bit 
of work for you, that old Dolly-mare made, cut- 
ting up her shines, out yonder just now. Lay by 
your bibs and tuckers and make me tight and 
whole for your fine ball this evening." 

So he offs with it in a hurry, and there we were. 

Well, we knew it was no good to say anything, 
but we did a deal of thinking. We took it away to 
our own room and spread it on the window-seat 
and looked at it. There was hardly a piece of 
it — body, sleeves, or tails — that was n't darned 
and patched. We had n't been over-particular of 
late about matching the colors, so some of the 
patches were lighter blue, and some black, and 
some brown, sewed with any sort of thread that 
came first — a sight to see, and no credit to our 
mending, to be sure. Then 't was shrunk and 
fady. My dears ! such a downright disgraceful 
old coat, and another great patch to be set on it 
for Grandpapa to wear to the ball ! We looked at 
it and we looked hard at one another ; then says 
Nancy to me, a-stamping her foot, "Cis, if Grand- 
papa wears this coat to the ball I '11 stay at home, 
I vow." Then I just gave one gasp and said, 
'"' Oh, Nancy ! " for the notion of my going with- 
out her, clean took my breath away, and I 'd no 
mind to stay at home, in spite of the coat. '"Yes," 
says she, "that I will, — if I never go to another 
ball so long as I live." 

Then I said, " Oh, Nancy ! " again, like the 
little ninny that I was ; and there she stood, 
looking at the coat, thinking, with her curly head 
first on one side, then on t' other, and her forehead 
all a-pucker and her rosy, saucy mouth screwed 
up like a button-hole. After a while she began to 
whistle, and though I knew 't was n't ladylike or 
pretty-behaved, I always made sure, when Nancy 
did that, of something worth while a-coming next. 

Then all of a sudden she clapt her hands to- 
gether, and says she, "/know what I '11 do." 

"What?" said I, but she just ran out of the 
room without saying a word, and in two minutes 
came flying back again with a long strip of yellow 
cloth in her hand. 'T was a piece left from Mrs. 
Becky's cutting out, one day, and a kind of home- 
spun cloth called buckram, dyed bright yellow with 
saffron, and walnut leaves. I could n't think at 
first what Nancy would be at, when she came wav- 
ing it for all the world like a flag before her ; but 
I soon found out. 

" Now, Cis," says she, a-laughing, but she 



meant it, nil the same, "I 'm going to put such 
a patch on this coat that Grandpapa can't wear it 
to the ball." 

I thought it a vastly ingenious notion, and one 
that just nobody in all this world but Nancy would 
have been keen enough to think about. How- 
ever, being always a sad coward, I was afraid that 
Grandpapa would be mad. Besides, there seemed 
something very bad in it, anyhow ; and so I told 
her; but Nancy only set her lips in another button- 

Grandpapa Hardwick ; but as for Nancy, she held 
her head up as brave as you please and marched 
along in front like any lion. " Here 's the coat, 
Grandpapa," says she, and gave it into his hand. 
I felt like running away then, only I wanted to 
hear what they said betwixt 'em. I did jump 
back, just ever so little, but after all I need not 
have been scared, for Grandpapa certainly did n't 
do or say what I 'd expected. 

A box on the ear was nothing so uncommon in 


hole and untied her housewife, with a jerk. Then those days, even if one had turned sixteen, when 

she threaded her needle and went to stitch- 
stitching aw^ay ; and she sewed that yellow cloth 
on tight and fast, for a patch, all down the back of 
the coat. 

I promise you my heart went pitty-pat when 
't was done, and we fetched it downstairs to 

young folks misbehaved to their elders. I 'm sure 
I 'd looked for nothing less that time ; but Grand- 
papa did no such a thing. He did n't say a word 
at first ; he only held the coat up and looked at it in 
a right-surprised way, and then a curious look came 
into his eyes, with that funny twinkle 'way deep 




down. " Humph ! " says he to himself, a-glancing 
sharply first at Nancy, then at me. " Very well, 
very well, and thank you, young ladies," says he ; 
and with that he takes the coat and claps it right 
on his back. I had never thought before that 
Nancy could look so silly as she did then ; and 
such a scolding as Mrs. Becky gave us, when she 
found out, we never had before nor after. There 
was the coat worse than need be, a sight to be- 
hold. Grandpapa was surer than ever to wear it 
to the ball, and nobody durst say a word against 
it. Howsoever, when the time came to dress and 
make ready, 't was more than Nancy could do to 
stay at home as she 'd said she would. She stuck 
to it a little while, but when she saw our frocks 
a-waiting to put on, and even Mrs. Becky so fine 
and gay in her very best silk gown that had never 
been abroad before for anything less than a 
wedding, — and the coach at the door, — why, 
then says she to me, " Cis, I '11 have to go. I 
know I '11 die when I see Grandpapa walking 
about with that patch on his back," says she, "but 
I '11 go all the same and make the best of it." 
Whereupon I said I made sure I would die myself 
at that, but we 'd see all the people first ; so 
the long and short of it was that we dressed our- 
selves in all our fine rigging and started. 

I 'm sure our dresses could n't have been prettier 
if they 'd been brand-new. whilst for the richness of 
the stuffs we could n't have touched it in those 
war-times for any money, I reckon. Our petticoats 
were of the best diamond-quilted Marseilles satin, 
Nancy's the beautifulest pea-green, and mine a 
crimson-red. Nancy's looped skirt was gros-de- 
Naples silk, of a pinkish color that Mrs. Becky 
said used to be called "great reputation," when 
't was all the fashion in her and my mamma's 
young days, edged round with silver lace looking 
as good as new by candlelight, for all a bit tar- 
nished in daytime. Then her bodice was of green 
satin to match the petticoat, laced up a-front with 
silver cord, and her neckerchief and ruffles of lace 
that had been Grandmamma Hardwick's own when 
she was a girl. Mrs. Becky was for having her hair 
dressed fine and powdered, but Nancy just shook 
her curly head and laughed at that notion ; and sure 
enough the powder would have seemed as much a 
pity as snow on blooming buttercups, for every little 
ring was like shiny gold itself. For my part, I was 
willing enough for the powder on mine. But Mrs. 
Becky said I was clean beyond my age a'ready and 
should n't be any more stuck-up. However, I had 
my curls, too, as fine and glossy as the curling- 
tongs could make 'em, and tied with a cherry- 
colored ribbon to set off my brownness. My skirt 
was brocade, all flowered with red roses, and un- 
shoes the best red French kid. So there was I. a 

red bird from top to toe ; and both of us with our 
handsome paste shoe-buckles on, that Mrs. Becky 
had never let us wear before in all our lives. 

We left Grandpapa Hardwick behind when we 
set out. He told us to go along in the coach and 
he would come presently on horseback, which was 
always the way he liked best to travel. Mrs. Becky 
whispered us how maybe he was waiting for black 
Sam, his own man, that had been sent to Annapolis 
that morning early, to fetch the latest war news. 
'T was good forty miles there and back, so that one 
might hardly in reason look for him before sun- 
down at soonest, but there was Grandpapa at four 
o'clock a-walking the hall floor and glancing out 
every minute, already. He 'd been mighty anxious 
and impatient of late days, ever since hearing that 
General Washington and Lord Cornwallis were 
marching their armies so close on each other in 
Virginia ; and all the other elder gentlemen, too, 
shook their beads when they talked it over, and 
said there must be heavy fighting before long. 
According to the last report, they had begun it 
even then at Yorktown. Maybe some folks would 
say 't was no time to be having balls, but the war 
was like an old tale then, that might go on for- 
ever, and young human nature will have its way, 
somehow, trouble or no trouble, war or peace. Off 
we set in the great coach, Mrs. Becky almost as 
much a-flutter as Nancy or me, with four horses 
to draw us and two outriders behind. Quality 
traveled in quality fashion, those times. Very grand 
we felt, I can tell you, and very grand we found 
everything when we got to the ball. 

It seems to me that I never see any candles now, 
shining as bright as those did that time, in every 
nook and corner ; nor any floor polished to such a 
looking-glass ; nor hear any music as sweet-sound- 
ing as those fiddlers, a-playing away, " Charlie o'er 
the Water," or " Devil 'mong the Tailors," or some 
such good old tune. Maybe it 's only the natural 
difference betwixt old eyes and ears, and young ; 
but there is one thing for certain you never see 
now-a-days, my dears, and that 's any such elegant- 
looking gentleman so elegantly dressed as Monsieur 
Tissot, with his beautiful powdered hair, white as 
a snow-drift, and his sky-blue velvet coat and vest, 
and his ruffles fine as any lady's. No, no ! you 
never see such as that in these days, with the men 
all choked up in black stocks to their ears and 
buttoned tight in their ugly straight coats, for all 
the world like field-marshals in a nor'west wind, 
and never a bit of powder on their greasy, plas- 
tered-looking heads. As for the ladies, I never 
saw a flower-bed yet that could compare with the 
brightness of their dressing. Half the country was 
there, — that is, everybody that was anybody, as 
the old saying goes, — and all in their finest humor 



as well as finest clothes, old and young. 'T was 
late in October month, when red and yellow leaves 
are turned to their prettiest prime, and the dancing- 
hall had been decked by the townspeople with 
wreaths of 'em all over the fireplaces, and the 
music gallery, and round the sconces, as fancifully 
as you please. I thought 't was like fairy-land, at 
the first look inside ; and surely there never was 
any prettier, livelier sight in this world. 

We began with the minuet, of course, mighty 
graceful and stately, and Monsieur opened the 
ball with Nancy, who was always his favorite 
scholar, as everybody said. Then 't was contra- 
dance and quadrille, turn and turn about. We 'd 
a plenty of partners, Nancy and I, and footed it 
merrily with the best. Her cheeks were like roses 
and her eyes a-shining, but I saw her every now 
and then looking round toward the door as I 
did myself, — both of us none too easy in our 
minds and expecting any minute to see Grandpapa 
walk right in, with the great yellow patch on his 
back ! 

However, we looked and looked again, and still 
he did n't come. He 'd never been so late before 
at any of the common meetings, and presently, 
after the clock struck eight, I fell to wondering so, 
about the reason why, that I could n't half re- 
member my steps. 

'T was 'most nine o'clock and I was standing 
with Tony Puffanblow, my partner, waiting our 
turn at hands across and down the middle, when I 
heard Grandpapa's voice outside the door. I saw 
Nancy, over on t'other side the room, give a great 
start, as if she 'd heard it too. — and then I saw 
the people in the doorway making room for him 
to pass. There was nobody in the county treated 
with more respect than Squire Hardwick, of Hard- 
wick's Choice. They all stepped aside with their 
best bows as he walked betwixt 'em right into a 
clear space in the middle of the room, — and soon as 
I set eyes on him, then, why, — I was like to drop ! 

He was n't dressed in the old coat at all, but in 
one that I never even saw before, — a beautiful 
black velvet coat, of a right queer old-fashioned 
cut, but glossy black and rich as new, with a gold- 
laced satin waistcoat and the beautifulest yellow 
lace ruffles at his neck and wrists. Then his 
breeches were velvet to match the coat, and he 'd 
diamond shoe-buckles and silk stockings ; whilst 
as for the look on his face — well, I 'd never seen 
that before, neither, anymore than the dress. His 
eyes they fairly sparkled like fire, with a queer, 
eager look in 'em that was almost fierce, and there 
were two red spots on his cheeks. In one hand 
he carried his three-cornered hat ; in the other a 
folded paper. Everybody seemed to know some- 
how, all at once, that something uncommon was 

happening. The music stopped right short and the 
people on the floor stopped dancing, in the midst 
of a figure, and turned round to look. Every- 
body in the room just gazed and listened to see 
what was coming next. 

Then Grandpapa Hardwick stood up mighty 
straight, with his head high. " Ladies and gen- 
tlemen," says he, out loud and clear, only his 
voice it shook ever so little, — " Ladies and gentle- 
men, God save our country and the brave men, 
dead and living, who have helped to make her 
free ! I bring you good news, neighbors. The 
war is over and done. Lord Cornwallis surren- 
dered to George Washington two days ago, at 
Yorktown in Virginia ! " 

So that was the news that black Sam had fetched 
in writing from Annapolis, and that was the rea- 
son why Grandpapa had stayed behind us so long 
to take off the old ragged coat and rig himself in 
the very best that he could find in his great chest- 
of-drawers, — clothes that he had n't once put on 
since he was a young man visiting our grand kin- 
people in England. What a time there was, to 
be sure, when he had said his say. The gentle- 
men cheered over and over again, till it was a 
wonder they did n't take the roof off atop of us, 
and bid fair to shake Grandpapa's hand clean 
away. As for the ladies, there was a great clap- 
ping and waving of handkerchiefs ; some kissed 
each other, some of 'em laughed, and some cried, 
which last seemed to me very queer on hearing 
such joyful news, but Nancy vowed afterward that 
the tears were running down my cheeks, like the 
others, for all I did n't know it. and I saw 'em on 
hers, too. We both ran up to Grandpapa as soon 
as we might for the men crowding him, and he 
patted us on the head very kindly, never saying 
one word about the changed coat. I know he 'd 
have worn the old one, yellow patches and all, if 
it had n't been for the turn of things. Maybe we 
deserved to be taken down a peg. However, be 
that as it may, we were none the less joyed at the 
surprise and the happy outcome, and, I do believe, 
felt as glad about the coat as about the country ! 

Then, what a dance there was next, when the 
ball went on again. The fiddlers were well " heart- 
ened up," as they called it, with a rousing toast to 
General Washington, and they fingered like folk 
possessed with a witchery. The violins seemed to 
speak, " Hold out your petticoats and dance like 
a lady," like live things saying the words with that 
tune, for Grandpapa would have a reel, which he 
said was the only thing worth dancing when one 
was in spirits : and there he led out in it himself, 
with Mrs. Becky to his partner ; whilst even Squire 
Parley and Captain Puffanblow and Colonel Mac- 
Grumble were stepping it, too, as lively as any 



youngsters on the floor. I promise you we had a ask Grandpapa in her prettiest way if she might 

fine appetite, one and all, for the good things when have the old coat ! 

supper was ready that night. " Humph ! " says he, looking at her with that 

Heigho ! a fine, pleasant time it was whilst it twinkle in his eyes. " Humph ! Do you want to 






' fj. Oil 1 .-;:?.'. "*:■ .tit, . |W3 

mm:. i\h\ 




lasted ; but 't was over soon, though not quite by 
twelve o'clock, as was first planned for the break- 
ing up. We were sleepy-headed and tired enough 
in the legs next day, but nobody quarreled about 
that, for though the ball was over the good news 
lasted on, and would last forever. The war was 
over and done, sure enough, and good times 
a-coming (as everybody said), with peace and 
plenty and prosperity all over our free republic 
land. Mrs. Becky was for tearing up the old coat 
that very day, for fear Grandpapa Hardwick might 
take a sudden notion to put it on again. I thought 
this was a very safe thing, but when we went to do 
it, who should say " No ! " but Miss Nancy her- 
self! and then, what does she do next but go and 

preserve it as a sample of your fine needlework, 
young lady ? " And at that Nancy blushed up 
red as a rose. Then he teased her a bit, saying 
't would do very well yet for him to wear on a 
rainy day; but, however, at last he said, "Take 
it — and go!" 

Goodness knows what had changed her mind on 
a sudden to set such store by the old worn-out 
thing ! 'T was only fit for the rag-bag, but she 
kept it always a-hanging in her own closet as care- 
fully as if it had been cloth of gold, till she was 
married and went away from Hardwick's Choice. 
Then she took it away with her, and her daugh- 
ter — your Cousin Ariana — has got what's left 
of it to this very day. 

Alice Maude Ewe//. 


By Harriet Taylor Upton. 

It was spring-time in the city of Chelsea, Mas- 

Many boys and girls were in the streets on their 
way to enjoy an outdoor holiday. 

Louis W. F. . . ., as he sat on his aunt's great 
front porch, contrasted strangely with things about 
him. He was deeply occupied with his own 
thoughts. He took a map from his coat-pocket 
and began a careful study of it. This he continued 
till he was startled by the rattle of a window-blind 
back of him ; instantly he crumpled the paper 
tightly in his hand and slipped it again into its 

In his mind he counted over his money, and 
found the sum to be only a very small one. 

" I do wish that he would go and play ball as he 
usually does on Saturdays," muttered Mrs. Beman, 
as she peered at him through the window; "but 
he won't ; he has reached the crisis. I had hoped 
he would be like his mother, — contented, — but he 
is like his father," and she quietly fastened the 
blinds. She had made no difference between her 
own sons and her brother's youngest boy, who had 
been left to her care when a mere baby. And in 
her mind she had mapped out his whole future. 
He was to be a lawyer ; to practice in Chelsea ; to 
live and die in the old homestead, as his father 
and father's father had done before him. But 
now she was beginning to fear her plans would 
not be carried out ; and she was not surprised 
when, later in the day, Louis said, "Aunt Hetty, 
let 's go into the library, I want to have a talk 
with you." 

So she accompanied him to the library, and 
they sat down opposite one another, with due 

"I have been thinking," began Louis, "that I 
should like to go to the war." 

Mrs. Beman smiled. The idea seemed so ridicu- 
lous to her that she did not answer. 

" I don't mean right now, because I am too 
young ; but I should like to enter the United 
States service," Louis went on. "I have con- 
cluded I should prefer the navy. Every citizen of 
the republic, you know, should give his life for 
his country, if need be." 

This was a set speech, and the speaker had re- 
hearsed it several times in his own room. 


Mrs. Beman remained silent. She knew just how 
that year, 1862, had stirred the hearts of all the 
people, and she considered this idea of her 
nephew's an outcome of the popular excitement. 
She knew that she had no political friends whose 
assistance she could ask, and she would make no 
effort to obtain an appointment for Louis. She 
disliked soldiers in peace, and did not wish to 
have her loved ones exposed to the perils of war. 

" I 'd like to go to Washington and apply for an 
appointment," persisted Louis. "Don't scowl, 
Aunt Hetty ; and please don't say no till you 
have thought about it." 

Before she could answer, he jumped through 
the low window, ran along the porch, and up the 
street, intending to leave her plenty of time for 

The next morning at breakfast he seemed some- 
what anxious as he awaited her decision. 

" I suppose the sooner you know, the better, 
Louis," his aunt said, as she passed him a cup of 

He nodded assent. 

" Well, I consider the scheme a hopeless one, 
and it is not what I had expected you would do ; 
but as soon as you can earn the sum needful for 
your expenses you can go and make a trial." 

The boy's face brightened, and he attacked the 
brown bread and baked beans with unusual vigor. 
He went with his aunt to church, for he went with 
her every Sunday, but he heard little of service or 
sermon. He arose and sat down at the proper- 
places, but his thoughts were far away. 

The next morning, at school-time, he came 
downstairs with a bundle in one hand and a small 
pasteboard box under his arm. 

" Good-bye, Aunt Hetty," he said, as he stopped 
to kiss her. 

"Where are you going, child ?" she asked, in 

"To Washington. Did n't you say I might go 
when I had money enough ? I am going to walk 
— that does n't take money. Besides, I have a 
little money of my own to pay other expenses. 
So good-bye ; I '11 write to you." 

Seeing that he was resolved to go, his aunt 
would not interfere. But she advised him to 
secure the aid and influence of some prominent 




man. Louis thought this an excellent suggestion, 
and thanked her for it. Again bidding her fare- 
well, he passed out of the gate and hurried along 
the street. 

Mrs. Beman watched him until he turned the 
corner. Then, as she went in, great tears trickled 
clown her cheeks. She brightened up, however, 
as she said to herself, " He may be back all the 
sooner for having started on foot." 

Meantime Louis was trudging on his way. That 
afternoon he entered the city of Boston, tired but 
little by his walk. 

Like all Massachusetts boys he knew of the 
great orator. Edward Everett, and he had even 
heard him speak. Remembering his aunt's advice, 
he determined that he could not do better than to 
call on Mr. Everett and see whether he could 
secure the influence of so prominent a man. He 
found the address in a directory and called at Mr. 
Everett's residence. Having said that he wished 
to see Mr. Everett on a matter of business, he was 
invited into the library. 

Mr. Everett was a man of dignified bearing and 
great reserve of manner. Rising, the old gentle- 
man said, in a cold but courteous tone, " What can 
I do for you ? " 

" Please give me a letter," said Louis, entirely 
unabashed, " to some of the officials in Washington. 
I am going to get an appointment as midshipman." 

Mr. Everett was surprised and not entirely 
pleased with the boy's blunt reply. He said 
coldly : 

" But I don't know you, my boy, and 1 am not 
in the habit of giving letters to strangers." 

Louis looked up with a smile and said stoutly, 
" But you will give me one ! " 

Mr. Everett, like most men in public life, was an 
excellent judge of character. He looked sharply 
into the boy's face for a moment and decided that 
the young fellow had not intended to be impudent 
or presuming, but had stated his wishes with 
native simplicity and directness. Smiling a little, 
in spite of his efforts to maintain a dignified ex- 
pression, he said : 

"Yes, I will. I believe you to be an honora- 
ble young man, and a brave one as well. I think 
I can trust you with my name, and I will do all that 
I can to assist you. You are a bright little fellow 
and should make your mark in the world." 

Asking Louis to be seated, he wrote a letter of 
introduction to his son-in-law, Commander Wise, 
who was then stationed in Washington. 

After a few moments' conversation, during which 
Louis heard not a few words of kindly advice and 
suggestion, Louis bowed and took his leave, much 
pleased by this first success. 

He spent the night at the house of a school- 

mate, where he had been welcomed on previous 
visits to town, and early the next morning he 
plodded manfully on until he had left the city 
limits. He had his path laid out carefully before 
him. He knew just when to take the railroad 
track and when to keep to the highway. 

At noon-time he stretched out under a tree and 
opened his lunch-box. His long walk had made 
him so hungry that he nearly emptied it, though 
he had meant to make it last for a long time. After 
a drink from a brook near by, he started out re- 
freshed. As the afternoon wore away, his feet 
began to sting and smart, but he still walked 
bravely on until, just as the sun was going down, 
he turned into a farm-yard, intending to secure 
lodgings and a supper. 

A fierce dog successfully disputed his right 
to enter, and he walked on nearly a mile before 
he reached a dwelling. Here he found a kind 
old man and wife, who, after asking numerous 
questions, gave the lad a supper and lodging. 
And, as the old gentleman was going to town on 
the following morning, he took the young traveler 
several miles on his way. 

For dinner Louis bought some bread and milk, 
and late in the afternoon he had an hour's ride 
with a tin-peddler. To be sure, he could have 
made greater progress had he walked, but his legs 
were stiff and sore, and he was glad even to jog 
slowly along behind the old gray horse, with the 
aged and talkative driver for a companion. 

That night, however, he could find no one who 
was willing to give him a lodging. He bought his 
supper at a farm-house, and was permitted to sleep 
in the barn. His bed of hay was rough, and the air 
in the loft stifling. A storm came up, and the 
roof leaked in many places, so that he had to 
change to another spot to avoid the dampness. 
At daybreak he renewed his march. The roads 
were muddy, the streams swollen, and he began 
to show the effects of his travel ; he looked dusty 
and tired. A man ordered him out of a yard he 
had entered. He did not come to a place where 
he could breakfast till nearly noon, and several 
times debated whether he should turn back or not. 
But he kept on. 

About four o'clock in the afternoon he came 
upon a company of school-children, and for a 
little while trudged along with them. For a few 
pennies he bought a portion of their luncheons, 
and made his supper of boiled eggs and apple-pie. 

He spent the night with a friendly farmer, 
whom he met on the road ; and although he did 
not exactly relish his breakfast, he congratulated 
himself because he had paid very little for it. He 
seemed to be meeting with unlooked-for dis- 
couragements : but his feet and legs, which at 




first had pained him, ceased to ache, and he com- 
forted himself with the idea that he was becoming 
a pedestrian. 

One day he happened to be at a small station 
just as a freight train was taking on fuel and 
water. A brakeman, with whom he fell into con- 
versation, and to whom he told something of his 
plans, invited him to climb into a freight car, and 
he thus secured a ride to Philadelphia, and thereby 
gained fifty miles. After leaving Philadelphia he 
kept to the railway, and, being well hardened, made 
excellent progress, securing such fare and lodging 
as he could. He met with no peculiar adventures, 
however, until he was on the outskirts of Annapolis. 
He was walking sturdily along, looking toward a 
camp not far from the road, when he was challenged 
by a sentry : 

" Who goes there ? " 

Louis halted, and, not knowing what to say, said 

" Where 's your permit?" said the sentry. 

"I have n't any permit, — what for?" asked 

" You must have a permit before you can go on 
to Washington. I shall have to keep you under 
arrest until I am relieved," said the sentry, not 

Louis had been walking since early morning and 
had no objection to resting a while. At first he 
had been somewhat startled at the words " under 
arrest," but he soon reassured himself by reflecting 
that it surely could not be either a civil or a mili- 
tary offense to offer one's services to the country. 

He talked with the sentry until the patrol came 
from headquarters, and then went with them as a 
prisoner. The Colonel was inclined to question 
Louis sharply at first, but when the boy had frankly 
explained that he was going to be appointed mid- 
shipman entirely on his own responsibility, the 
Colonel laughed heartily and they were soon on 
excellent terms. Louis stayed at headquarters for 
several hours, and then the Colonel said : 

" Well, my boy, as the country needs you, we 
must not keep you here. Allow me to offer this 
as an apology for having detained you so long," 
and he thrust five dollars into Louis's hand. He 
pressed Louis to stay with them, but the boy was 
eager to go on. The Colonel made Louis promise 
to send him word as to the result of the journey. 
He insisted that Louis should take the money, and 
even secured him a place on a train which stopped 
only a short distance from Washington itself. After 
Louis left the train, it was not many minutes be- 
fore the dome of the Capitol appeared against 
the sky. 

The blood leaped in his veins for joy. and he 
quickened his pace. He walked on and on, still 

keeping his eyes on the dome, apparently without 
coming any nearer it. He concluded, therefore, 
that the track curved away from the Capitol, and 
at Benning Station he turned into the highway 
and sat down to rest. 

Presently a little girl came wandering down a 
path which led to a house high on an adjoining 
hill. She carried a small basket, and looked 
eagerly up and down the road. Louis spoke 
to her, and she told him she was waiting for 
" Pompey," who was coming to take her across 
the river on his way to the city. 

" Thar 's a heap o' Yankees 'round yeah," she 
said. " Are you going to town, too ? " 

" Yes," said Louis; "but I have to walk." 

"You can ride," she returned. "Pompey will 
be alone, and he 's right glad of company." 

So the last few miles Louis jogged along by 
a dark-skinned, thick-lipped boy, who spoke a 
dialect he could scarcely understand. 

" Dar am de jail," said the boy, " It hab a 
heap o' fellows in dar, now. Reckon it '11 be a 
right smart spell fo' dey git out, too ! " 

But the young traveler had little interest in jails, 
and made but short answers. As he approached 
the city, he dusted off his hat and clothes, and 
otherwise made himself as neat as he could. At 
the corner of Maryland Avenue and Second Street 
he bade his companion good-morning. 

He walked briskly through the Capitol grounds 
without noticing any of the surroundings. He has- 
tened up the broad steps, through the rotunda, 
not stopping till he reached the green swinging 
doors which guard the upper House of Congress. 
Then suddenly he found himself nervous and ex- 
cited ; his forehead was wet with perspiration, the 
air seemed lifeless to him, and his courage was 
gone. He turned about and walked wearily away. 
He did not stop until he was under the dome, 
and then, somewhat tired of carrying about the 
little carpet-bag in which he had packed all his 
outfit, he seated himself upon a bench and looked 
about him. 

He soon noticed that the number of people 
increased as noonday approached, and he sum- 
moned up his courage to return to the entrance 
of the Senate. Forgetting, for the moment, the 
letter given to him by Edward Everett, he began 
to consider whether he could not secure the influ- 
ence of some Massachusetts statesman. Of course, 
his first thought was of Charles Sumner. He ap- 
proached a man sitting near one of the doors, and 
said : 

"Can you tell me where I can find Mr. Sum- 

" I suppose he is in his committee-room," re- 
turned the attendant. 




" Where 's that ? " asked Louis. 

" It does n't make any difference to you, where 
it is. You can 't see him till he comes out," was the 
ungracious reply. " You stay around here, and 
when he comes along I '11 tell him you want to 
see him." 

So Louis walked up and down, watching the 
people pass him, — black and white, rich and poor, 
ladies and char-women, excited politicians, jost- 
ling, dejected beggars, all intent on their own 

But a boy can not feed upon sights, and he 
wandered down the hall until he found an old 
colored woman selling pies, cakes, buns, and fruit. 
Her stand was in a corridor between the rotunda 
and the Senate. She seemed much interested in 
Louis. She was, even then, a well-known charac- 
ter, and acquainted with many of the legislators, 
all of whom were kind to her, and, it is said, she 
occupies the same stand to this day, and has not 
forgotten Louis's visit. 

"What makes you charge so much?" he in- 
quired, when he had learned her prices. 

" I keep fust-class victuals, and I sells to Con- 
gressmen, not to no common trash," she replied. 

Louis thereupon invested in a piece of pie and 
apple, which he eagerly ate and found satisfying. 

" I wonder if Congressmen like such hard 
crust ? " he thought, as he went back to his post. 
It was then two o'clock, so he approached the 
doorkeeper again. 

" Did you find Mr. Sumner?" he asked. 

" I have n't seen him to-day ; but when he comes 
along, I '11 let you know," said the doorkeeper, 

" So you told me this morning at eleven o'clock, 
and I have waited ever since." 

" Have you ? " chuckled the official. " I forgot 
about you entirely." 

Soon a man walked up hastily and, giving a 
card to the doorkeeper, said, " Send that to Sen- 
ator Sumner ! " Before many minutes an at- 
tendant returned and the man was invited to 

Louis was quick to take the hint. Writing his 
name upon a blank card, which he found upon a 
table near the door, he said to the doorkeeper, 
" Send my name to Senator Sumner, and I 
think he will see me ! " 

Louis spoke so confidently, that the doorkeeper, 
after looking sharply at him, sent in the card. 

Senator Sumner received the card just as he 
was about to come out, and so appeared with the 
card in his hand. As he reached the door, he asked 
the doorkeeper : 

" Where is the gentleman who sent in this 
card ? " 

" It was that little boy standing there," said 
the doorkeeper. 

The Senator turned courteously to Louis, say- 
ing, " Well, my boy, what is it ? " 

" I have come to Washington to be appointed 
midshipman," said Louis, simply. 

.Air. Sumner looked at him with surprise. At 
length he said, " I 'm too busy to see you now. 
Come and see me at my room to-night." Then 
he walked briskly away. 

That night Louis had a long interview with the 
Senator, and told him the whole story. 

"Did you walk all the way?" the Senator 

" Xo, sir," said Louis; " I contrived to get two 
little rides on the cars, and two or three persons 
helped me a few miles." 

He saw the Senator's bright eyes twinkle, and 
his firm mouth break into a smile. 

" Well, well, you have pluck ! Did you think 
you could surely get the place?" 

" Oh, yes, sir ; 1 know I can." 

Here Mr. Sumner looked serious again, and 
presently said, reluctantly, that he feared he could 
do nothing for Louis. 

" It is no use, my boy. Even the President 
could n't do it. Why, I have from four to five 
hundred applicants whose fathers are influential 
men in high positions, all seeking to be appointed 
as midshipmen or cadets. You could get to be 
colonel in the army more easily. It is one of the 
few things that are absolutely out of the question. 
You 'd better go home — Washington is no place 
for boys in such times as these." 

Louis remembered his letter to Commander 
Wise, and, after telling Senator Sumner about his 
interview with the Massachusetts orator, he pro- 
duced the letter of introduction. 

" It will do no good to present it," said Mr. 
Sumner. " Possibly," said he with a smile, " the 
President might have influence enough to help 
you — certainly no one else has ! " 

Louis, having expected a different result, was for 
a moment discouraged. But recovering himself, 
he turned to the Senator and said sturdily : 

" I Ye come to Washington to get that appoint- 
ment, and sometimes even great men are mistaken. 
I shall not give it up until I have seen the President 

The following morning Louis made his way to 
the White House. He hung about the porch a 
while, and then followed some gentlemen inside and 
upstairs. They turned into one of the rooms and 
shut the door behind them. Soon another party 
arrived, and he noticed that they wrote their names 
on cards and sent them in by the messenger, who 
afterward admitted them. Louis then remem- 

i88 9 .] 




bered his experience at the Capitol, 50 he took a 
leaf from a little note-book, wrote his name on it, 
and gave it to the man at the door, who seemed, 
from his accent, to be a German. The messenger 
quietly tore it up and said : 

" You go Yay ! Der President hat no dime for 
you leetle poys." 

"Every one tells me to go home," thought the 
bov, and for a moment or two he reallv wished 


' (SEE page 658.) 

himself there. But he resolved to make another 
attempt, and wrote his name upon another piece 
of paper. The man at the door destroyed this also. 
Indignant at this treatment, Louis said loudly: 
" You have no right to treat me in this way, and 
if President Lincoln knew it he would not allow it. 
I 've as much right to see the President as any 
senator or governor in this country, and I know 
that the President will see a bov who has taken the 

VOL. XVI. - 


6 5 3 



trouble to walk from Boston to Washington to see 
him ! Are you going to let me in ? " 

The man said, " No," and, turning his back, 
paid no further attention to Louis. 

Before many minutes, and while the door stood 
ajar, some one required the man's services and he 
went a few paces away from his post. In an instant 
Louis slipped in and ran literally into the Presi- 
dent's arms ! 

It seemed that the President had heard the alter- 
cation at the door, and was coming toward the 
doorway as Louis entered. As he received Louis, 
he said : 

"Would n't they let you in to see me, after 
your having such a long and wearisome journey? " 
Then, turning to the doorkeeper, the President 
went on, "When a boy walks from Boston to 
Washington to see me, as this boy has done, I 'd 
rather see him than all the politicians in the 
United States ! " 

Mr. Lincoln laughed heartily at this. 

Young as he was Louis saw that, though he had 
made a good impression, the President regarded 
the appointment as out of the question. Resolved 
to convince the President that it was a serious 
matter, he said in a determined tone : 

" Mr. President, I am in earnest. I must have 
that appointment " 

Mr. Lincoln was much amused at his per- 
emptory tone and interrupted, saying, "You must 
have it, must you ? Well, you shall have it ! 
That 's the sort of talk I like to hear. That 's the 
kind of material to make a navy-officer out of ! If 
we had more of it in the service, the war would 
soon be over." 

Taking a little card from his desk. Mr. Lincoln 
wrote upon it as follows : 

"This boy says he must get into the Naval Academy, 
and I think he must, if possible. Can Sec. of Navy do 
anything for him? His name is Louis W. F . . . . 
" .March 26, 1S62. A. Lincoln." 


P^<? fi^G /i£S ^Tc^n^J^ 

Mr. Lincoln then laid his hand on the 
boy's arm and said very kindly, " I really 
can do nothing for you; but a boy who has 
trudged all the way from Massachusetts to 
Washington seeking an opportunity to serve 
his country ought to have what he came for. 
You go to Secretary Welles, hand him this 
card, and tell him I sent you to him." 

A few words of thanks, and Louis slipped 
down the stairs and ran whistling along till 
he reached the Navy Department. 

The doorkeeper went out, much abashed, 
and the President said in his kindly way : 

" Sit down, my lad. I suppose you wanted 
to see the President and the other curiosities 
•it Washington ? " 

"No, sir," said Louis; "I have come on 

Mr. Lincoln sighed, and said to Secretary 
Seward, who stood near, "Even the boys must 
come on business ! Well, what is your busi- 
ness?" he asked Louis, a, little less cordially. 

Then Louis made up his mind to do his best. 

"Mr. President," he began, earnestly, "I 
want to be a midshipman in the navy, and 
have come to ask for an appointment as cadet in 
the Naval Academy " 

The President here interposed, " But are you 
aware that I have seventeen hundred applications 
on file ?" 

"Please add my name to the list, and make it 
seventeen hundred and one," said Louis, good- 




'' I 've got it, sure! "he thought. "The President 
can have anything he wants ; he 's king." 

He easily gained admission to the Secretary's pri- 
vate room, as he announced he had a message from 
Mr. Lincoln. Mr. Welles read the card and smiled. 
" Did you say that to the President? " he asked. 

" Yes, sir," said Louis, hopefully. 

Mr. Welles was especially fond of boys and young 


6 59 

people, and he was, besides, a very good reader of 
character. He saw that Louis was a bright boy. 
He knew, too, how easily Mr. Lincoln's heart was 
touched by such a case, and he said : 

" I could not appoint you, young man, without 
violating the law. You would not wish me to do 
that, I know. I have a son of my own whom I 
would like to see appointed, and I can't appoint 
him, either." 

" I don't want you to do anything wrong, but I 
came down here to go to Annapolis," replied 
Louis ; and, half choked with disappointment, he 
went back to Mr. Lincoln. The doorkeeper al- 
lowed him to go right in, and Mr. Lincoln stopped 
writing immediately to hear the result. 

The President asked the boy how he had suc- 
ceeded, and Louis repeated what had been said. 

When he heard it, Lincoln's face looked as sad 
as Louis's. 

Mr. Lincoln put on his hat and, taking the boy 
by the hand, started for the Navy Department. 
On the way the President asked Louis about his 
family, and finally inquired why he came alone, 
and was much amused by Louis's reply^: 

" I don't bring my aunt with me when I 'm on 
business ! " 

On learning something of the boy's ancestry, 
the President said : 

" I see where you get your pluck and persever- 
ance. You shall have that appointment if I have 
power to give it to you ; — if not, I will do some- 
thing else for you." 

Arriving at the Navy Department, the President 
said to Secretary Welles : 

" Welles, I want you to appoint this boy of 
mine, a midshipman. Any boy of his age who has 
the pluck and perseverance to do what he has 
done, I call my boy. Will you appoint him ? 
He tells me you were going to appoint your son. 
Now, Welles, you have n't any boy of his age but 
what is tied to his mother's apron-strings and 
would n't dare to leave home- and go through the 
trials this boy has gone through." 

" I have no appointments to make, Mr. Lin- 
coln," replied Secretary Welles. " If I had, I 
would gladly appoint him." 

After a few words more, President Lincoln took 
Louis by the hand, saying : 

" Come, my boy, let us go home." 

They returned to the White House, where Sec- 
retary Seward was waiting. Mr. Lincoln told of 
their interview with Mr. Welles. 

Mr. Seward suggested that Louis might be ap- 
pointed to West Point. But this would n't do at 
all. Louis said he did not care to be anything but 
a midshipman. Mr. Lincoln, pleased with the 
boy's resolution and singleness of purpose, said : 

" It is no use talking. He has made up his 
mind, and that settles it ! " 

" Really, my boy," the President said, after a 
few moments, '"I suppose Mr. Welles is right. 
We shall have to have a law passed for your bene- 
fit. You can have a bill drawn up." 

Louis's fervor was beginning to cool. He was 
astonished that a real President and a real Secre- 
tary had to be governed just like other people. 
Still he did not give up. 

He remained at Washington for a long time. 
His frankness, manliness, and cleverness won him 
friends everywhere. A bright clever boy, there 
were many ways in which he could make himself 
useful in those busy times, and he let no oppor- 
tunity escape him. 

Several senators and congressmen gave him 
work enough to enable him to support himself. 
He became intimate at the White House, par- 
ticularly with the President's youngest son " Tad." 
But, pleasant as was his life in the capital, Louis 
never forgot his purpose. Whatever he could do 
to secure the appointment he did. More than one 
congressman offered to appoint Louis if he would 
qualify himself by changing his residence to 
another district, and Andrew Johnson, then Mili- 
tary Governor of Tennessee, who afterward became 
President, declared his willingness to give him an 
appointment, saying he would be glad to have 
Louis become a midshipman from Tennessee. But 
Louis neither cared to give up his native State, 
nor knew how to support himself in a new one ; 
perhaps, also, he was unwilling to leave the field 
before his fate was settled one way or the other. 

One evening, about half-past six, Senator Hale 
of New Hampshire met Louis just after the ad- 
journment of a meeting of the Committee on 
Naval Affairs. Of this committee Mr. Hale was 
chairman. He stopped as he saw Louis, and, 
beckoning to him, said : 

" Louis, I have just drafted a bill which is to be 
offered in the Senate, and that bill, if passed, will 
give to the President power to appoint six mid- 
shipmen-at-large to fill the vacant districts of 
Southern congressmen. Now, the bill provides 
that applicants must be recommended by the rep- 
resentatives of their districts. Now, you go tell 
the President what I have told you, and make 
him promise to give you one of those appoint- 
ments. Don't say a word to any one else ! " 

Thanking the Senator warmly for his kindness, 
Louis hurried to the White House, and going 
to the President's room found him with his son 
"Tad," to whom he happened to be reading the 
Bible. Before long, having finished a chapter, he 
asked Louis, " What brings you here, at this 
time of the night ? Can I do anything for you ? " 




'• Yes, you can, Mr. Lincoln," said Louis, 
eagerly. " Senator Hale has just told me — " and 
he told the story, ending with " and I am here to 
ask for one of those appointments." 

" If it is so, yours shall be the first appointment 
I will make," said the President, warmly. "You 
deserve it — vou have earned it." 




Evidently Louis did not seem so well pleased as 
the President had expected, for he asked, with 
some surprise : 

" What ! — are you not satisfied? " 

"Yes, sir," Louis answered, "more than satis- 
fied. I am gratified and delighted, too, sir. But, 
you are a very busy man ; you may forget it. 

Won't you please put it down in writing upon the 
back of the card you gave me for Secretary 
Welles ? " 

Mr. Lincoln laughed heartily. 

"Certainly," he said, "but — why don't you 
study law, Louis, instead of being a midshipman?" 
and he laughed again. Then, taking the card, he 
put it on his knee and wrote as follows : 

" If it turns out, as this boy says, that a law is to 
pass giving me the appointing of six midshipmen-at- 
large, and Hon. Mr. Hooper will come to me and request 
it, I will nominate him, this boy, as one of them. 

"June ii. 1S62. A. Lincoln." 

At length the bill was reported, but before it 
came to its final passage was so amended as to 
confine the appointments to the sons of officers, 
and thus make it impossible for Louis to be ap- 
pointed under it. 

Louis was almost in despair, but he still hoped 
that something might happen to change the bill 
before it became a law. 

Among the great men who were interested in 
his story wag Mr. Thaddeus Stevens. He promised 
to attend to the bill when it should come back to 
the House. Louis had been recommended to him 
by a lady who was a well-known writer, and Mr. 
Stevens became much interested in him. In fact, 
he had told Louis where to sit in the gallery, 
when the bill was to be passed. Louis sat in the 
gallery one morning expecting the bill to be read. 
It was, but Mr. Stevens was not present. The 
second reading, — and no Mr. Stevens! Louis 
grew so excited that he was on the point of calling 
from the gallery to stop it. He had risen in his 
seat and was looking wildly over the railing and 
waving his hand, when, just as the bill was pass- 
ing to the third reading, in came the looked-for 

Mr. Stevens at once declared in a loud voice, 
attracting the attention of all present, that this 
amended bill was all wrong; that it was made 
especially for a little fellow who had walked all the 
way from Massachusetts to serve his country, and, 
pointing up at Louis, he said : 

" There he sits in the gallery, waiting for our 
verdict." This oratorical appeal had an immediate 
effect. There sat the boy, "pale as a sheet," as 
Mr. Stevens said afterward. 

Mr. Stevens, who probably remembered his 
early experiences of adversity and trouble, told, in 
his usual strong and eloquent way, the entire story 
with great effect. The House at once passed the 
bill in its original form, and even the Senate re- 
ceded, and the original bill thus became law. Mr. 
Hooper wrote to the President, requesting Louis's 
appointment, and it was among the first ten ap- 


66 1 

pointments of midshipmen made by Mr. Lincoln 
under this law. 

Imagine the surprise of his aunt and the rest 
of the people of Chelsea when they heard the re- 
sult ! Louis came home, not as he went away, walk- 
ing and carrying a little bundle, but in a luxuri- 
ous car, and as an embryo officer of the United 
States Navy. After a little time spent at home 
he departed for his duties at the Academy. Here 
he likewise found himself well known. Visitors 
almost always asked for him. 

Some time afterward Louis visited the field of 
the second battle of Bull Run, and to his great sur- 
prise met there the Colonel who had given him 

the money and sent him on to Washington. Great 
was the amazement of that officer (who had become 
a General, meanwhile) to learn of the complete 
success of the boy's Quixotic plan. 

Louis served as midshipman, with credit, and, 
after the war, resigned from the service and entered 
the legal profession, thus justifying Mr. Lincoln's 
keen recognition of the bent of the boy's character. 
He is still living and is now a prominent lawyer in 
New York City. 

Among his most valued possessions is the tiny 
card written for him by President Lincoln, and 
here first published as an illustration to this story 
founded upon facts. 


Bv Theodore R. Davis. 

The method of sketching a battle by ''our 
special artist on the spot" is not known to most 
persons, and droll questions about such work arc 
asked me by all sorts of people. Most of them seem 
to have an idea that all battlefields have some 
elevated spot upon which the general is located, 
and that from this spot the commander can see his 
troops, direct all their maneuvers and courteously 
furnish special artists an opportunity of sketching 
the scene. This would, of course, be convenient, 
but it very seldom happens to be the case ; for a 
large army usually covers a wide extent of coun- 
try, — wider in fact than could possibly be seen, 
even with the best field-glass, from any situation 
less elevated than a balloon high in air. 

A battle is usually fought upon a pre-arranged 
plan, but most of the circumstances and actors 
during the actual conflict are unseen by the chief 
general. He, however, mentally comprehends 
everything and readily understands what is going 
on from the reports which are constantly brought 
to him by staff-officers. 

It may happen that the point where the most 
important movement is to be made, is so located 
that no general view of it can be had, and it is only 
by going over the actual ground that one can ob- 
serve what is going on. Now, the artist must see 
the scene, or object, which he is to sketch, and so, 
during the battle, is obliged to visit every accessible 
point which seems likely to be an important one, 
and there make a sufficient memorandum, or gain 
such information as will enable him to decide at 
the close of the action precisely what were its most 
interesting features. 

Many persons have said that since my duty was 
only to see, and not to fight, they should think that 
I would not be shot at, and so did not incur much 
danger of being hit. 

Ordinarily, of course, the fact is that, in a gen- 
eral engagement, special individuals who do not 
seem to be prominent are seldom selected as 
targets, but if your own chance is no worse, it is 
surely no better than that of others near you. To 
really see a battle, however, one must accept the 
most dangerous situations, for in most cases this, 
can not possibly be avoided. 

There have been occasions when some industri- 
ous sharp-shooter troubled me by a too personal 
direction of his bullets. No doubt the man regarded 
me as somebody on the other side, and considered 
he was there to shoot at anything or anybody on 
the other side. My most peculiar experience of this 
sort was having a sketch-book shot out of my hand 
and sent whirling over my shoulder. At another 
time, one chilly night after the day of a hard bat- 
tle, as I lay shivering on the ground with a single 
blanket over me, a forlorn soldier begged and re- 
ceived a share of the blanket. I awoke at day- 
break to find the soldier dead, and from the wound 
it was plain that but for the intervention of his 
head the bullet would have gone through my own. 

There are also incidents which would show the 
other risks, besides those during a battle, to which 
a special artist is exposed. But it is the work and 
not the adventures of the artist which I shall de- 
scribe ; and to make the subject clear it will be 
well to explain how much there was to be learned 
when I first entered the field as a campaign artist. 




Infantry, cavalry, and artillery soldiers, each had 
their particular uniform, and besides these, their 
equipments, such as belts, swords, guns, cartridge- 
boxes, and many other things, were different. Their 
tactics and maneuvers were not alike, and some 
distinguishing point in each uniform designated the 
corporals, sergeants, lieutenants, captains, majors, 
colonels, and generals. As many as ten different 
saddles were in use, and of the army homes — tents 

> ■ "u 

secure detailed sketches, and under some circum- 
stances it would often be impossible to get more 
than a very rough sketch 
from which to finish a 
drawing of some very 
important occurrence. 

Some leaves taken 
from one of these re- 
ference note-books are 

' ■ m^ 

V ' i 


— there was a great variety. The harness for artil- 
lery horses was peculiar, as was that of the mules 
which drew the army wagons and ambulances. 

Now, these are only some of the things, — a few 
of them, — but sufficient to show the necessity for a 
special sketch-book, in which to make, whenever 
I found an opportunity, memorandum sketches of 
every new thing. I thus provided myself with a 
reference book for use when active campaigning 
commenced ; for then there would be no time to 

shown here, to explain what these memoranda were 
like. They are somewhat smaller than the originals, 
but it should be mentioned that these note-books 
were small, so that they might conveniently be 
carried in my pocket, ready for use at any moment. 
Now, a word about my army homes : There never 
was the slightest difficulty in finding quarters, and, 
when with the Western army, I sometimes had 
several different quarters at the same time, places 
where I paid a regular monthly mess-bill, whether 
present or absent, and thus was enabled to stay 

A J Mr nuA.mkt:-- v »Jii- »# ; IK,- 

ftr'tl" t ji * 

s-„v.cli RodLwi «-"< 




66 3 

over night at the 
place nearest to 
the scene of the 
next day's work, 
or could imme- 
diately commence 
to prepare the 
finished drawings 
to be sent away 
to my journal at 

very queerest specimens 
of hasty memoranda, and 
one of these (which it will 
be observed bears every 
evidence of being made 
on the spot) shows a 
locality in which bullets 
flew thick and 
fast, and every- ' 
body was quite 
busy and active. 
The place was 
the scene of a 
part of the battle 
of Raymond, 
and the note 
will no doubt 
amuse most of 
those who see it; 

/-*'<& YtevoA. C-- to.\\XS 

the very earliest opportunity. 
Of course the character of 
these drawings varied both ac- 
cording to the circumstances 
under which they were made 
and the time afforded for their 
elaboration from the sketches. 
And the sketches, or mere 
notes, as at times they were, 
might sometimes be absolutely 
unintelligible except to myself 
(although even now, and after 
twenty-five years have passed, 
many of these same rough 
notes bring back to my mind 
the scenes they indicate, and 
suggest many forgotten de- 
tails). Probably my note-book 
of General Grant's Vicksburg 
campaign contains some of the 

but, should it meet the eye of 
any of the veterans of the 
Vicksburg campaign who were 
in the Raymond fight, they 
will not, remembering the ex- 
perience, wonder at the appear- 
ance of the memorandum. My 
horse had been shot a few 
moments before the sketch was 
made, and there is still a re- 
minder of the incident in the 
form of a scar on my left knee 
as large as a half-dollar, made 
by the bullet that killed my 
horse — or some other bullet. 

The Raymond fight was not 
a great battle, but one of those 
compact and vigorous engage- 
ments at close quarters, with- 
out any protecting earthworks. 




Under such conditions it could last but a brief 
time before one side or the other gave way, 

camped some miles beyond the scene of the battle, 
what I saw of the field I saw during the action. 

By comparing the note with the drawing, a some- 
thing may be discovered which stands for one of 
Captain De Golyer's six-pounder cannon.* The 
written word, "Logan," means General Logan ; 
" Mc " is for Colonel Ed. McCook, who was 
at the moment limping away, wounded, 
and had taken two muskets for 
crutches; " M" shows where 
General McPherson was, and 
near him was the brave Lieu- 
tenant-Colonel W. E. Strong, 
who a year afterward rescued 
General McPherson's lifeless 
body from the battlefield of 
Atlanta. Trees and smoke are 
suggested, and a few marks 
(which might mean anything) 
stand for the road and a bit 
of destroyed fence. The word 
" dust " shows where there was 
a dust cloud — an evidence of a movement of 
troops. The name of the division which was 

C<xvvL'^ O^ 


#3s&^c Wm * 

;A" TevCO. 


and that time it was the Confederate soldiers marching there, I took pains to learn afterward, 
who found the situation too uncomfortable to re- There was an incident in this scene which was as 
main ; and as we followed quickly after them, and amusing as it was characteristic of the chief actor, 

* Illustrating the chances of war — when the paper containing the illustrations of the Vicksburg campaign reached me, a copy was 
handed to Captain De Golyer, who at that moment was with his battery in the advance line in front of Vicksburg. The captain started 
for his tent, at some distance in the rear, and in a place of comparative safety, and while there, looking over the paper, a chance bullet 
struck him, inflicting a wound which caused his death a few weeks afterward. 



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Captain Tresalian, an Irish officer on the staff of the fight was going on with clubbed muskets; which 
General Logan. He was seated astride of the top- side the captain was most interested in was doubt- 
most rail of the fence, across which, in some places, ful, for, with cap in one hand and sword in the 







7 i i" "^ - ' 



other, he was encouraging both parties to go in, almost too improbable to believe. 1 think he was 

and do their best, while he occupied a reserved unconscious of danger, and I know that I was 

seat, a most interested spectator. not, for in some of my sketch-books there are 

This man was a type of the soldier who loves a memorandum sketches of some battlefield occur- 

fight, and true stories of some of his doings seem rences which show plainly that the hand holding 


NjS^/f <&S 

+' ,? 





the pencil was unsteady ; and jerky marks here and 
there make it pretty plain that the locality was an 
unsafe one. The surroundings, as well as the 
danger, had some influence at the moment when 
such sketches were made ; for most of these 
" Get-out-of-that " sketches, as my army friends 
called them, show simply the locality of some 
exciting incident, and not a general view, such as 

that of the field at Champion's Hill (or Baker's 
Creek, as the Confederate soldiers called the bat- 
tle). The memorandum sketch of that action shows 
a general view of the field, indicated with reason- 
able distinctness — even if "corn f" does stand 
for a field of corn ! After leaving the spot, I saw 
General Grant and some of his staff at that point, 
and so introduced them in the sketch, to add inter- 





est to the scene. Of a number of sketches made 
during this battle, only one or two were finished to 
send to the paper, for during the Vicksburg cam- 
paign the movements and incidents occurred so 
rapidly that it was difficult to decide what to spare 
time for, so as to send sketches which would give 
the best general idea of what had happened. 

An incident which is worth telling took place 
after the close of the battle of Champion's Hill. 
The Confederates had started back to Vicks- 
burg, and some of our troops marched hastily in 
the same direction ; clouds of dust rose from be- 
yond the forest to the left of the road along which 
we marched, and we were not surprised, upon 
coming to a large field, to see soldiers marching 
along a road on the opposite side, nor astonished 
to see two mounted men leave the column and ride 
toward two of our officers who had immediately 
started to ascertain what troops those were. When, 
presently, we saw these horsemen firing their re- 
volvers at one another, we knew that those were not 
our troops marching over there, and made arrange- 
ments accordingly. 

Some time after the close of the war, two gentle- 
men met on a steamboat in the South, and each 
thought that he recognized the other, though 
where they had met neither could then recollect ; 
but it soon came out that it was on that 16th of 
May, 1863, after the Champion's Hill engagement, 

and as they shook hands for the first time each 
was glad that his pistol-shot had done the other 
no harm. 

A glance at the illustration of " our special 
artist " working late at night to finish his sketches, 
makes me tired enough to stop right here ; for it 
brings to mind the many nights, when a few hours' 
sleep was all the rest the Special could expect to 
have after a long day, during which nearly every 
part of an army covering miles of country had been 
visited and the general situation of the forces had 
been ascertained. , 

Of the different ways of forwarding sketches, 
the mail, next to a special messenger, was found 
to be the quickest and safest ; and now, looking 
back at the prodigious work that was accomplished 
by those whose duty it was to forward and receive 
our army's mail, I know of nothing else wherein 
the Government's care of the soldiers was more 
fully displayed. 

In closing this article, it ought to be stated that I 
have made sketches upon many battle-fields where 
the fighting was too extended for any single per- 
son to hope to reach more than a few of the most 
prominent points, and I have found that a sure 
guide to these points was to go toward the place 
where the heaviest musketry fire was heard, — not 
a pleasant thing to do, but quite in the line of duty 
for one who is " special artist on the spot." 


By Joel Stacy. 

How often I 've sustained a shock, 

Since I have owned my eight-day clock ! 

At first, I wound it once a week, 

(Bless me ! how the key did creak !) 

And then I pondered : "Where 's the need? 

The thing would go at even speed 

A whole day longer, if neglected ; 

And I, for one, can't be expected 

To wind and wind on every Sunday 

A clock that 's bound to run till Monday." 

And yet each week to add a day, 

And recollect, is not my way ; 

And this it is that bothers me ; — 

My clock and I do not agree. 

Suppose you buy an eight-day clock, 
And add it to your household stock, 
And wind it every week, we '11 say, 
Letting go that extra day ; 
How many times (to be quite clear). 
Must it be wound within the year? 
And on the other hand, suppose 
You let it run till toward its close, 
And so, on each eighth day, delight 
In winding it with gentle might, 
And never miss the task — 't is clear, 
You '11 wind it fewer times a year ; 
But just how many times, you see. 
May best be told by you, not me. 

'PHI SH tlT^** *** i " * ^* 

flS j.mlr*!^ ,1 to buy a new 


with my IttLTiii .-:■ 


Jtegy ail I 

!ti?.'.i.<VLS S* 




Playing C^i"g tto the Zoo*. 

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OSS . y 

I Mill 


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1 a. , 

Plavino Goitio : to tti Flower - 


By Eliza Ruhamah Scidmore. 


Of the children of the Emperor of Japan only 
one son and one daughter remain to him, Prince 
Haru and the Princess Hisa. Yoshi Hito, Haru 
no Miya celebrated his ninth birthday on August 
31, 1888, and if he lives will succeed his father on 
the throne. Princess Hisa is three years old, but 

prince who died, means autumn, so that the 
imperial brothers, Prince Spring and Prince Au- 
tumn, were often spoken of together, and the play 
upon their names gave court poets many oppor- 
tunities to turn graceful verses to them. Prince 
Haru was born in the Tokio palace, and until his 

although empresses have ruled Japan in the early second year lived in the imperial nurseries in the 
centuries, the line of succession passes from Prince Nakayama Yashiki, a black-walled place facing the 
Haru to the cousins of the Emperor. castle moats. After that he was transferred to the 

The word Haru in the Japanese language means palace of the Empress Dowager, but he now resides 
spring-time, and Aki, the name of the last little with the Emperor. A new imperial palace has just 




been built in Tokio, and in it there is a large 
wing or pavilion that contains the apartments of 
Prince Haru and his suite. 

The present Emperor of Japan passed his boy- 
hood, like his ancestors before him, in the seclusion 
of the old imperial palace in Kioto. When he 
came to the throne, in 1S67, he was only fifteen 
years of age, and had dreamed and imagined less 
of the outside world than his little nine-year-old 
son now actually knows. His early life had been 
occupied with the study of " the classics " and the 
routine of the most elaborate etiquette and most 
long-drawn ceremonial known to any court of 
the world. There was in his existence none of 
the activity and excitement that crowd the daily 
life of a European sovereign or crown prince, and 
when he left the palace grounds it was in a closely 
covered palanquin, or cart, and he could go only to 
some other high-walled palace, temple, or mon- 
astery grounds. He wore flowing, large-sleeved 
garments of the heaviest brocades, that prevented 
him from doing anything more than walking at a 
most dignified pace, and a sedate promenade in 
the palace gardens was as much exercise as he 
ever took. 

At the time the Emperor came to the throne the 
war between his followers and those of the Shogun, 
or military ruler, was fast approaching an open 
conflict, and it ended, as we all know,* in the short 
campaign of 1869, the overthrow of the Shogun and 
the restoration of the secluded ruler to actual 
power. A few battles near Kioto, the siege and 
destruction of the Osaka castle, were the great inci- 
dents of the struggle, and the defeated Shogun 
escaped in disguise, first to a United States gun- 
boat, and after leaving that refuge was captured by 
the imperial forces. His life was magnanimously 
spared; and, stripped of his power, titles, and 
estates, he now lives as a private gentleman in the 
small town of Shidzuoka, about one hundred miles 
south of Tokio. 

After his restoration to actual power the Em- 
peror moved his court to Tokio, the old military 
capital of the Shogun, and greatly changed his 
manner of living and of conducting the nation's 
affairs. He adopted for himself European dress 
as his costume of ceremony, and soon uniformed 
the army, the police, and civil-officers in the coat 
and trousers of Western nations. The old nobles 
were horrified to have their sovereign appear in the 
Tokio streets in the open day, and to have any 
one and every one looking upon his sacred coun- 
tenance, but they have since become used to it. 

Compared to his imperial father, even at the 
present day, Prince Haru is much more emanci- 
pated, and none of the old traditions seem to have 

* See article entitled " Great Japan : the Sunrise 

any weight in regulating his conduct. There was 
no precedent to follow in the education of a Jap- 
anese prince in the modern way, and Prince Haru 
has made many laws for himself. He is a wonder- 
fully bright and precocious little fellow, and his 
small, twinkling black eyes are full of mischief 
and see everything. He is hardly taller than an 
American boy of six years of age, but he has at 
times the dignity, the pride of birth, and con- 
sciousness of station and power, of a man of sixty. 
His eyes are not slanting, nor indeed does one often 
see in a Japanese face the wonderfully oblique eyes 
beloved of the caricaturists. The peculiarity in 
the expression of their eyes is given by the eyelids 
being fastened in either corner, as if a few stitches 
had been taken there. This makes it impossible 
for them to lift the eyelids as high as we do, and 
gives the narrower slits through which they look 
the peculiar Oriental look. One often sees Japa- 
nese with as round, wide-open eyes as those of 
our race, and it gives an especial beauty to their 

Prince Haru has the exquisitely smooth, fine 
yellow skin that is one of the points of greatest 
beauty in Japanese children, and a bright color 
sometimes shows in the pale yellow of his little 
cheeks. He has the rank of a colonel in the Jap- 
anese army, and wears his military uniform and 
his cap with the gold star all the time, his clothes 
being dark-blue cloth in winter and white duck 
in summer. He is fond of riding, and, when 
mounted, the miniature colonel trots along at a 
fine gait, giving and returning the military salute 
as he passes an officer or a sentry, like a young 
martinet. Being a prince, as well as a colonel, he 
has a suite of nobles in attendance upon him, — 
chamberlain, preceptor, secretary, equerry, and 
aide-de-camp all going with the establishment of 
this imperial mite. Many of these nobles are as 
old as his father, and a few are old enough to be 
his grandfathers. Even by taking their regular 
turns at duty, the suite and staff in attendance 
upon him are kept very busy by the active young 
princeling. One set escort him to school, stay on 
duty there and carry the books to and fro, and are 
relieved by those who attend the small Highness 
in his hours of ease and play. 

While Prince Haru has his separate establish- 
ment in the palace, he often dines with the Em- 
press Dowager, or sits in state at the table with 
the Emperor and Empress. He is as apt in hand- 
ling the knife, fork, and spoon, as he is with the 
chopsticks, and comprehends all the etiquette of 
offering or receiving a " health " with one of the tall 
champagne glasses, as well as the formalities at- 
tending the use of the thin saki cups. He is said 

Kingdom." in St. Nicholas for November, r88S. 



to talk to his father as unrestrainedly as to any 
member of his suite, to politely answer back, con- 
tradict and give his own little opinion, as if it were 
an ordinary father he addressed, instead of Mutsu 
Hito, Son of Heaven, and one hundred and twenty- 
first sovereign of the unbroken line of japan's 
imperial family. The Emperor is said to greatly 
delight in the boy's ways, and his chatter about 
what he sees and does ; and to the whole court the 
Heir Apparent is a wonderful and extraordinary 

Prince Haru attends the nobles' school in Tokio 
and has private tutors besides. He is very quick 
to learn and an ambitious student, a little more 
assertive and argumentative than the usually timid, 
docile, gentle little Japanese boys in the classes 
with him. English is the foreign language that he 
has decided to learn first, and he already knows 
many conventional phrases of greeting and social 

He enters into the tugs-of-war, football, and 
other school games with the young noblemen who 
are associated with him, and is as earnest in his 
play as in everything else. 

When he was only seven years old Prince Haru 
had an unexpected wrestling match with a small 
American boy of his own age. It was at a school 
entertainment in Tokio, and it began by Prince 
Hani's noticing that the young American kept 
on his Tarn o' Shanter cap in the princely presence. 

"Go and tell that boy to take off his hat!" 
ordered the small prince to his aide-de-camp. 

Before the officer could reach the offender, the 
insulted princeling slipped from his chair, strode 
down, and knocked off the hat with his own hand. 
Young America never stopped to think who the 
aggressor was, but struck back, and in a few 
minutes the future emperor and one of our future 
presidents had clinched, and were slapping and 
pounding each other in the most democratic man- 
ner. The horrified nobles of the prince's suite 
and the frightened parents of the young American 
separated them, and led them apart, neither com- 
batant feeling any regret for what he had done. 

" That boy slapped me first, when I was n't 
doing anything to him ! " persisted the young 
American, whose parents were almost expecting to 
be arrested or beheaded for the unprecedented 

treatment of such a sacred being as the Imperial 
Crown Prince. 

" I have punished that boy for his impoliteness 
in wearing his hat in my presence," said the pom- 
pous princeling, frowning at his suite, tightening 
his little sword-belt and strutting up and down like 
a young game-cock. 

The tableaux and exercises went on quietly after 
that prelude, and when supper-time came, Prince 
Haru was seen eating pink and white ice-cream 
elbow to elbow with his late opponent, and gal- 
lantly feeding his own sponge-cake and eclairs to 
the opponent's pretty little yellow-haired sister. 

Prince Haru inherits his father's love of horses 
and horse-racing, and at the spring and autumn 
races in Tokio is to be seen in the imperial box. 
When he attends without the Emperor, the Japa- 
nese national anthem is played by the military 
band to announce the arrival of an imperial per- 
sonage, and he is received with the same honors as 
his father. The youngster carries a field-glass half 
as long as his arm, to watch the horses as they circle 
about the great lotus-lake at the Uyeno park 
track, and he is the most excited among the spec- 
tators when the horses are on the last quarter. 
He is critical and appreciative, too, at the fencing 
and wrestling matches, and the Japanese athletic 
sports and contests that survive from the old feudal 

The old conservative nobles are not pleased 
with the idea of this very precocious and modern 
young prince going about so much and seeing so 
much of the world. They think him too advanced 
and too progressive, and consider that he is hav- 
ing his own way too much; but those nobles do 
not know boys and princes in other countries, and 
being first of the princes to grow up after the 
restoration, everything has to be new and experi- 
mental in his case. It is proposed, that when 
he reaches the age of fifteen or sixteen years, he 
shall go abroad with his tutors. Prince Haru will 
spend several years on his travels around the 
world, seeing the other nations of the earth, living 
for a time in the great capitals, and studying the 
methods and results of the different forms of gov- 
ernment, so that he may have a broad and general 
knowledge of affairs before he is called upon to 
become the ruler of Japan. 


By Dora Read Goodale. 

My uncle is threshing with Freddy: 

My mother has gone to the fair ; 
I 've vowed to be steady as steady, 

And baby, s-he 's tied in her chair : 
I must brush up the hearth to look neater, 

And put all the tea-cups away, — 
There 's no one to help me but Peter, 

And Peter, — why, Peter 's at play. 

Just hear how the turkeys are crying, 
And the calf is as hungry as two ! 

I '11 see if the cherries are drying, 

And then there 's the churning to do : 

In summer we churn in the cellar. 
So baby can come there to stay — 

I must think of a story to tell her 
While Peter, — but Peter 's at play. 

It is time that the chicken was over, 

And my mending is scarcely begun,- 
Here 's Peter come up from the clover, 

And we never have dinner till one ! 
I '11 just make this sauce a bit sweeter 

And bring out some cakes on a tray 
He must be well treated, poor Peter, 

He does work so hard at his play ! 

Vol. XVI.— 43 




By Charles Frederick Holder, 

er of the N. Y. Academy of Science, Hon. Member of Linnsean Society, etc., etc. 

Chapter I. 

LL ashore that 's going ashore ! " For the last time the 
peremptory and ungrammatical order rang through the 
vessel, the huge hawsers were cast oft", the great propeller 
blades moved restlessly, the big stack sent out volumes 
of heavy smoke, and amid cheers and good-byes, the 
waving of hats and handkerchiefs, the steamer "Daniel 
Webster " moved away from the pier and, swinging 
out into midstream, headed down the bay for Florida 
and the Gulf. 

" We 're off at last," said George Ramsey, in a 
tone of supreme satisfaction. 

"Yes," replied Professor Howard, who stood be- 
side him, " our expedition may certainly be said 
to be upon its way." 

The expedition was none other than a va- 
cation-trip of a party known as the " Nat- 
ural History Society of Wexford College." 
It comprised the ten boys who had ranked 
highest in the natural history course dur- 
ing the college year, and they, under 
charge of their instructor, Pro- 
fessor Howard, were to spend 
the summer months in 
\,~ " field-work" among the 

;,.: . :>■-—-■ - - -.. 




coral reefs of the Gulf of Mexico and the Florida 

Old Mr. Redlow, one of the Board of Trustees 
was the college benefactor, and he frequently 
made large gifts of money to widen its scope 
and influence. Recently he had proposed to give 
to Professor Howard, who was in charge of the 
Scientific Department, a fund to cover the ex- 
penses of expeditions for field-work, to supplement 
the theoretical studies in the class-room. Before 
finally deciding upon this course, however, he pro- 
posed to send such an expedition to Florida as an 
experiment designed to show the need and benefit 
of field-work, especially in natural history. 

Professor Howard was only too glad to take 
charge of the party, and not one of the ten stu- 
dents who ranked highest in the class refused this 
opportunity for a healthful and improving vacation. 
Much difficult work was to be required from the 
young students, but the idea of studying under such 
delightful conditions and surroundings had filled 
these ten boys with the brightest hopes, and they 
set forth for their summer schooling with scarce 
restrained exuberance. 

Down the broad river that borders the great 
city glided the south-bound steamer. As the sun 
went down, the steady rolling swell suggested the 
deeper waters they were approaching. 

" Oh, see that porpoise ! " cried Frank Vail sud- 
denly, as a black body rose, making a graceful 
curve in air several feet above the water. " I 
did n't know they ever leaped so high as that." 

"Indeed they do," replied Prof. Howard. "I 
remember when I was a boy that a number of us 
cornered a school of porpoises in a small Connect- 
icut inlet, and, stretching our five boats across the 
entrance, tried to drive them to the beach. The 
porpoises were frightened and made a rush for 
open water, dashing directly toward us. Most of 
them dived under the boats, but four big fellows 
leaped right over our heads, clearing, I suppose, 
some twenty feet in distance at one leap. I really 
don't know which were the most astonished, we 
boys or the porpoises ! " 

" Why did n't you hit them with an oar as they 
went over you ? " asked Tom Derby. 

'• Well, Tom," said the Professor, laughing, " if 
I remember, we did n't think of it ; we simply 

Here the supper-gong sounded and the "expe- 
dition " was shortly seated at table, with the keen 
appetite of youth sharpened by the salty air. 

"You may not be so hungry to-morrow at 
this time, my lads," said the captain, smiling at 
their eagerness. "It will probably take you a 
day or two to get your sea-legs on." 

"Where do we get them, captain?" inquired 

young Ramsey, to whom the expression was 

" Why, old Davy Jones keeps them in his 
locker," said the captain, who thought the boy 
might be joking, amid the laughter of the rest, 
" and if the wind freshens up a bit you can expect 
him aboard to-morrow." 

"Now, young gentlemen," said Professor How- 
ard, as they- all gathered in the cabin after supper, 
"it is a good time to say a word about our plans 
for work. Although our trip is to be for study, 
we wish to combine all proper pleasure with it. 
If we are not interested by our studies, there is lit- 
tle profit in attempting them. So, in the first place, 
we shall endeavor to busy ourselves with broad 
elementary observations, and the simpler facts of 
animal life. The investigation and study which is 
the real object of this expedition will, therefore, 
come easily to you all. As there are ten of you, I 
propose to make each of five couples responsible 
for a certain group of animal life, and that group 
is to be considered the specialty of each pair. You 
will be required to keep daily a brief journal of 
your discoveries, and to learn as much as possible 
about the structure and habits of such specimens 
as you may find. A portion of our evenings can 
usually be spent over the microscope, or in talks 
over each day's work, and find of specimens. I 
have heard it said that natural history is a dry 
study, but I hope to prove that a fallacy, and to 
show you that there is nothing more exciting, 
health-giving, and instructive than what is called 
'field-work.' Here are your special divisions, 
arranged, I think, somewhat according to your 
tastes and leanings : Eaton and Douglas will take 
the Radia/es — the star-fishes, corals, and all ani- 
mals that spread from the center ; Ludlow and Vail, 
the Mollusks or shell-fish, and so on; Hall and 
Ramsey, the Crustaceans — as crabs and craw-fish; 
Carrington and Raymond, birds and reptiles; 
Woodbury and Derby, the insects and such land 
animals as we may find. Although you have these 
special subjects, you are to collect everything and 
endeavor to learn as much as you can. Our speci- 
mens will be carefully preserved — the smaller or 
more delicate forms in alcohol ; sea-weeds must be 
pressed, while some of the fishes and all of the 
birds need to be skinned." The boys listened at- 
tentively to the Professor's directions. 

Although thoroughly enjoying the voyage. — 
after the much dreaded Hatteras, and the still 
more dreaded sea-sickness had been safely weath- 
ered, — they looked forward with keen expectation 
to the run ashore and to the study that was to be 
so much like play. 

And so, late one afternoon, as they hung over 
the gunwale studying the frequent patches of gulf 




weed which make up the celebrated Sargasso Sea, 
the Professor told them that this weed was the 
home of myriads of strange creatures.* Suddenly 
they heard from the pilot-house the cheery cry, 
"Land ho! " 

" Where, where ? " shouted all the boys, as 
with straining eyes they looked across the great 
stretch of blue water. 

The captain, who was leaning out of the pilot- 
house window, pointed to the west, and the boys, 
following with their eyes the direction of his 
finger, saw what seemed only a dim and hazy 

" That is Florida," said Professor Howard, 
" and we are near the capes." 

Soon, out of the hazy mist came into view the 
long line of white beach and its background of 
trees, and then the course of the steamer was 
changed and both beach and trees passed from 
sight again. The weather was delightfully warm ; 
strange sea-birds appeared on the water, which 
shone like a sea of glass ; zigzag ripples formed 
behind the sickle-fin of a great shark as he sculled 
slowly along just beneath the surface. The 
setting sun was throned in gorgeous colors ; er- 
mined clouds floated in the background, upon 
which were lighter fleeces fringed with gold and 
gloriously tinted with purple and scarlet. The 
purest vermilion and lake, brilliant and gem-like, 
shone almost to scintillation, and rays of azure and 
gold spread quite to the zenith, lending reflected 
coloring to the ascending cloud-banks. The sea was 
lighted up to exceeding beauty. Around the 
throne of the slowly sinking sun, all was moving, 
changing, and dissolving, and the spectacle culmi- 
nated in a scene of rarest brilliancy as the view 
closed behind the great curtain of the sea. 

" My, though ! " exclaimed Vail, as silently, 
almost solemnly, the members of the expedition 
witnessed their first really tropical sunset; "it's 
almost like a transformation scene, is n't it, boys ? " 
And then as the Southern Cross hung over the 
dark water-line and Canopus of the South blazed 
out in all its splendor, the boys paced their last 
evening up and down the vessel's deck and en- 
joyed the full beauty of the brilliant heavens with 
all the more zest because they knew that early the 
next morning they would land in Key West. 

Chapter II. 

They found Key West (the name of the island 
is an English corruption of the Spanish Cayo Hueso, 
or Bone Island) a curious town of some thirteen 
thousand inhabitants, built on the north-western 
part of a small coral-island, nowhere more than 
twenty feet above the sea, but with an excellent 

* See article, "A Floating Home," 

harbor. There were sights enough on both sea and 
shore, to fill profitably the brief time they were to 
spend there while the Professor was arranging for 
the little smack in which to make their tour of the 
Keys — under which general name is grouped the 
line of coral reefs and sand-banks fringing the 
Florida coast-line beyond its southernmost cape. 

The owner of the " Sallie," the smack they had 
engaged, was known to every one in Key West as 
Paublo. He was a good-natured fellow and was 
quite ready to give trie boys every opportunity to 
make a tour of the island and the neighboring 
waters ; and one morning, as he held his dinghy 
near the smack with his handy boat-hook, he 
called out : 

" If any of you young men care to go turtling, 
hop aboard and I '11 row you over to Conchtown." 

The invitation was gladly accepted by the entire 
expedition, and Paublo soon pulled around to the 
head of the island to the mixed Spanish and Negro 
settlement, shaded by palms and tropical trees, 
known as Conchtown. As they approached the 
point the boys saw what seemed like a number of 
fences extending from the water. These, Paublo 
said, were " turtle-crawls," or pens about fifty 
feet square, in which the captured turtles are 

Seeing the boat, a number of dusky urchins, who 
were wading along the shore, rushed out and, be- 
fore the boat had reached the crawls, had headed 
it off and begged to be allowed to catch the tur- 
tles. Paublo. perfectly willing to escape such hard 
work, readily consented, and having made the boat 
fast near one of the gates, he told the boys to catch 
three of the largest turtles. 

Four of the " Conch boys," throwing off their 
scanty clothing, noiselessly lowered themselves into 
the water, which, within the crawls, was about five 
feet deep. 

Some twenty or thirty large turtles, of the green 
and the loggerhead species, could be plainly seen 
through the clear water lying asleep on the white 
sandy bottom. Each Conch boy selected a turtle 
and, swimming toward it from behind, suddenly 
dived down and caught the sleeping victim by the 
rim of shell just over its head. Not one missed 
his grasp, and the next moment the amused 
watchers saw the captured turtles raise their heads 
as if in surprise and look quickly around. Then 
came a grand mixture of flippers, Conch boys' 
heads, and dashing spray, while the puffing and 
blowing from both turtles and riders would have 
done credit to a school of whales. 

Up to the surface they came like shots, then 
down again at race-horse speed, dragging their 
captors after them, rousing all the other turtles in 
the pen and sending them tearing up and down 
n St. Nicholas for October, 1888. 



the inclosurc. The Conch boys who were hav- 
ing so furious a turtle-ride seemed to enjoy the 
sport immensely ; holding fast by one hand, they 
stretched themselves at full length on the turtles' 
backs, drawing deep breaths whenever they rose to 
the surface, and taking the dives and the waves as 
they came along, until the captured turtles — after 
a struggle of nearly twenty minutes — were finally- 
tired out. Then the Conch boys, grasping the rims 
of the shells with both hands, kneeled squarely on 
the turtles' backs, and fairly forced their heads out 
of water and steered them toward the boat where 
Paublo and the boys of the expedition all " lent a 
hand " and soon had the game aboard. The flip- 
pers were then slit, those on each side tied to- 
gether, and Paublo's marketing was done. 


"I suppose that is our 'fresh beef for two 
weeks to come," laughed Vail, surveying the cap- 
tive monsters. 

" Talk about lassoing wild horses ! " said 

Douglas ; " why, it 's nothing to catching turtles." 

" I would n't mind trying a turtle-ride myself," 

said Tom Derby, as Paublo pulled away for the 


" You '11 have opportunities enough at Garden 
Key," said Paublo, " and right on the clear reef, 
too. I 've had a big loggerhead tow me an hour 
before I tired him out, and they are likely to bite, 
too, — which makes it all the more exciting." 

As soon as the Sallie was ready for her cruise 
the expedition went on board, bade farewell to 
Key West, shook out the mainsail, and were soon 
bowling along before the pleasant trade 
wind, with Sand Key light dead-ahead. 
They ran by Fort Taylor, with its 
bristling guns, past the great 
white beach where the slaves 
were once barracooned (or 
penned in) during the 
cruel old " slavery days," 
and quickly were well 
off-shore and heading 
out into the south-west 

The smack was a 
roomy little vessel, and 
was provided with a 
nice cabin, containing 
four berths, each for two 
persons, while well-cush- 
ioned seats made good beds 
for the others. When they 
were fairly out of the harbor 
they threw their kingfish lines 
over the side, and so trolled along, 
half expecting a bite. Soon a cry 
from Carrington attracted their attention. 
He was braced against the bulwarks, haul- 
ing at his line with might and main. 

" 1 've got him ! " he cried. But that 
became somewhat doubtful, as the fish gave 
a surge and took the line through the lad's 
fingers at a rate that made them burn. 
Paublo luffed the smack, and they shortly 
had the kingfish alongside. It proved to be 
a splendid fellow, about four feet long, of 
a steel-blue and silver color, and with a long 
and rakish jaw. 

" Don't lift him by the line," said Paublo, 
unshipping a pair of grains that hung in the 
shrouds, " or you '11 tear out his jaw. Now, 
hold him up." 

Carrington and Tom Derby lifted the fish 




slightly, Paublo hurled the barbs into its neck, and 
by the combined efforts of the three the fish was 
lifted to the deck, where it threshed around and 
gave them all a lively few moments, dodging its 
dangerous tail. 

Paublo took him in hand, however, and before 
long a rich odor floated aft that told of a coming 
dinner and a good one. Two more kingfish were 
caught during the afternoon, and by five o'clock 
that afternoon the smack anchored off the Mar- 
quesas — a group of picturesque coral-islands, cov- 
ered with mangrove trees, half-way between Key 
West and Rebecca Shoals. 

The boys soon had out the dinghy and were pull- 
ing toward the shore, when there came a loud 
splash not a hundred feet beyond them ! Now one 
and then another great white fin was seen, and, 
with the cry of " Sharks ! " the boat's head was 
turned toward the splashing. 

" Don't make any noise, boys," whispered Tom, 
as he made a long lead- or sounding-line fast to the 
thwarts and, grains in hand, stood prepared for 
action as the boat neared the mysterious fins. 

" Here 's one coming this way," cried Tom, 
raising the iron as he spoke. 

Hardly had he uttered the words when a great 
black body appeared near the bow and Tom let 
drive, with a result that appalled them all. An 
immense fish, over twenty feet long, and in appear- 
ance like a monster bird, rose into the air and then 
came down with a crash that sounded like the blast 
of a cannon. The waves nearly filled the boat, 
and the boys were thrown down in a body by the 
sudden shock. Bob Carrington had been holding 
the coil of rope, but had fortunately remembered 
to throw it overboard, leaving the end fast to the 

" That 's no shark ! " said Ludlow, as he picked 
himself up from the bottom of the boat. 

"I should say not," replied Tom; "but what 
do you suppose it is ? Just see it go ! " 

The fish was rushing away, making the water 
foam and boil. 

"Stand by the line," shouted Vail; "it'll be 
taut in a second ! " 

" Away we go ! " cried Douglas. 

And go they did. For now the fish had run 
out the whole length of line, and, with a sudden 
jerk, away flew the boat, bow under, at race-horse 

" Cut the rope!" yelled Eaton excitedly, pick- 
ing himself up for the third time. 

" Hold on a minute," said Bob Carrington, who 
had caught the line at the notch ; "I 've got the 
hatchet, and when I 'm sure he 's too much for us 
I '11 cut the rope." 

But just then they heard Paublo's voice. He 

was calling to them from the smack, between his 
rounded hands and at the top of his voice : 

"Cut the line! Cut the line ! — don't let him 
foul the line. It's a devil-fish ! " 

Chapter III. 

The boat tore along the channel at a terrible 
rate, but as it turned a curve, the excited boys saw 
that their strange steed was rushing to its own 
sure destruction, for the channel ended in a mud 

They were right. In its terror the great fish ran 
high up on the dead coral in about three feet of 
water. The line slackened at once, and the boys 
now put out their oars and, after stopping the boat's 
headway, pulled off to watch the dying struggles. 
The fish was beating the water with tremendous 
power. Its head was fully exposed, and as they 
pulled in range, Tom put a load of buckshot into 
it and ended its struggles. 

When, shortly after, Paublo and the Professor 
were brought ashore, and they all walked round to 
view their capture, Paublo said, " Well ! you boys 
had a narrow escape. I thought it must be a 
devil-fish, and so it was, sure enough ! If the line 
had fouled, he would have upset you in a second." 

The huge creature was measured, and found to 
be seventeen feet across, and it was estimated to 
weigh fully three tons. 

" Its name," said the Professor, " is Cephalop- 
tera, and it is one of the largest of the Ray family, 
to which belong also the skate, the thornback, and 
the torpedo." 

The boys carried away the tail as a souvenir, and 
then pulled around to the sandy beach off which 
the smack was anchored. 

"Give way hard!" said Paublo, and with a 
rush the boat was sent on the beach, whereupon 
the boys all tumbled out and hauled her above 
the water line. 

They started at once to explore the beach, and 
soon came upon an old wreck, which the tides had 
evidently driven higher and higher, year after year, 
until it was now high and dry, the haunt of crabs 
and gulls, which had evidently taken complete 
possession. Tom noted one bird of so brilliant a 
red that he determined to secure it. A shot from 
his gun brought it down with a broken wing. It 
started for the water at once, but Hall dashed into 
the surf and caught it just in time. 

" Is n't that a splendid fellow to set up in our 
collection?" asked Tom. "It 's a spoonbill, is n't 
it, Professor? " 

"Yes," replied the Professor, "and a fine speci- 
men, too. Its feathers, you see, are blood red, 
and its bill is spread out at the end, not unlike the 



bowl of a spoon. Hence its name, the Roseate 
Spoonbill. The Platalea, or spoonbill, belongs to 
the same family as the heron, to which it is closely 

After a stroll, followed by a rest on the beach, 
the expedition took to the boat again, intending to 
make a circuit of the little island. As they pushed 
out, Eaton said, looking down through the clear 
water : 

" Why, the bottom of the sea is as beautiful as 
a garden, is n't it ? " 

"Yes," replied the Professor, "just see it here, 
below us : the corals, fans, plumes, and sea-weeds 
are the plants ; the Gulf Stream surges through 
their branches as wind plays through the trees on 
land ; and as land-plants absorb the excess of car- 
bonic-acid gas, these marine trees secrete the lime 
salts, rejecting the soluble salts of sodium and other 
substances that are not necessary for them. The 
land-plants purify the air so that we can breathe it, 
and the plant-gardens do a similar work in the 
ocean, purifying the sea-water, keeping down the 
excess of salts that would be unwholesome for the 
fishes and other animals." 

"And how about the animal life, Professor?" 
inquired Ramsey. 

" The likeness holds good," replied the Profes- 
sor; "for there are many curious similarities. 
The seals, manatees, and whales are the cows of the 
sea ; the sharks are the eagles ; the crabs are the 
insects ; the bird-of-paradise finds a worthy imi- 
tator in the fantastic angel-fish that may be seen 
among these very coral reefs. For every animal 
on land there is in the sea some creature which 
seems to fulfill the same office, though, of course, 
under changed conditions." 

The conversation was here interrupted by the 
dinghy coming to a sudden stand-still. It had run 
into a great bunch of sea-weed. 

" It 'sa regular young Sargasso Sea," said Wood- 
bury, laughing. " We could almost use this as an 

"That has been done with some species," said 
the Professor. "There is found near Tierra del 
Fuego a gigantic sea-weed called the Macrocystis 
pyrifera, which grows in water 240 feet deep, in- 
clined at an angle of 45 degrees, and is so firmly 
rooted that vessels during smooth water arc fre- 
quently made fast to it." 

Here Tom Derby, who had been towing after 
him a mass of the weed, suddenly noticed that 
some spherical pieces of the weed had separated 
from the rest. Seizing one of them, he tossed it 
into the boat. 

" Here 's a marine base-ball," said he. 

Professor Howard picked it up. 

"This is a very interesting discovery, Derby," 

he announced. " Your marine base-ball is really 
the nest of a peculiar fish, about four inches long, 
that lives on the surface of the water in this Gulf- 
weed. The nest is made up, as you see, of pieces 
of sargassum, wound in and out, and matted 
together in a curious fashion, and then pressed 
into its spherical shape by bands of a glutinous 
secretion from the fish that look like strings of 

When the nest had been opened, the eggs of 
the fish were found, fastened to the leaves in great 
numbers ; and Tom, who still retained some of the 
loose pieces, was fortunate enough to find among 
them the odd fish itself. 

" It is called the Antennarias," said the Profes- 
sor; "and a more curious fellow could scarcely be 
imagined. You will notice that he mimics the 
color of the sea-weed." 

" And see," said Vail, "these things that look 
like bits of the weed, on its head and fins, are really 
part of its flesh." 

The Professor had placed Tom's prize in a pail 
of water. " They are slow swimmers, you see," 
he said, as the fish moved lazily about, " and 
prefer to lie undisturbed among the protecting 
branches of the sea- weed." 

" I should like to see the baby-fish when they 
are hatched," said Raymond. " There must be a 
thousand of them." 

" More than that," said the Professor. " Why, 
boys, if all the eggs of fishes were hatched, or if 
all the young grew up, there would not be water 
enough on the earth to float them. There is 
always another fish of some kind that preys upon 
each particular species, and they in turn are de- 
voured by others. There must, therefore, be many 
born, if any are to survive. But, without this 
check to the increase, the fish would multiply with 
marvelous rapidity. Suppose, for instance, the 
eggs of the cod, which lays — by trustworthy cal- 
culations — over nine millions of eggs, should all 
be hatched and grow to maturity, the bodies of the 
cod alone would, before many years, seriously im- 
pede navigation." 

The boys concluded that it was fortunate so 
many fish enjoyed a cod-fish diet. 

The boat had now nearly completed the round 
of the island when, on making a sudden turn, they 
came upon a number of white cranes and gannets. 
The cranes rose quickly, but the sportsman Tom, 
who usually had his gun ready, brought one down, 
very neatly, on the wing. The stupid gannets 
had not moved even yet, and Ramsey declared 
that they well deserved their name of " boobies." 
The boys pulled out and picked up the body of 
the crane. It was a beautiful white bird with a 
yellow patch on its breast. 




"It is the Ardea kerodias, or Great Heron," 
said the Professor. " This yellow spot on its breast 
is supposed to be capable of giving out a bright 
phosphorescence in the dark." 

" Don't shoot," said Bob Carrington, as Tom 
took aim at the gannets, who were still regarding 
their strange visitors in stupid amazement. " Let 
me scare them." So taking a large piece of coral 
that he had picked up on the beach, he flung it 
toward the birds. The gannets rose slowly, as the 
coral splashed up the water, but, to the great 

being full of air, the coral floats easily on the 

" Hold on a minute," said Douglas, as the boat 
grated over some branch-coral, knocking off thou- 
sands of tips. The dinghy was stopped, and 
Douglas, leaning over the side, tore off a branch of 
coral. Hanging to it was a beautiful anemone. 
Douglas handed it, with a bow, to the Professor, 
and it was placed in a glass of water. Very soon 
the anemone threw out its beautiful tentacles like 
the petals of a flower. 


astonishment of the boys, Bob's piece of coral, in- 
stead of sinking, floated lightly on the water like a 
piece of wood. 

" All stones don't sink, you see, Carrington," 
said the Professor, laughing to see Carrington's 
look of surprise. " That coral does n't mean to 
be left out of our collection ; and seriously I think 
we had better keep that specimen," he added, 
and the floating coral was again picked up. 

" But what is it, — and why is it, — Professor?" 
asked Hall. 

'■ It is what might be called the skeleton of the 
coral called Meandrina spongiosa" explained the 
Professor; "and when the animals die, it be- 
comes bleached. It is very porous, and the pores 

"That is more like a flower than an animal, 
Professor," said Woodbury. 

" Yes," replied Professor Howard, " and related 
to the corals. You can form a very good idea of the 
coral-animals from this anemone. They all belong 
to the class called Actuwzoa. The body, as you 
see, is a cylinder, its top fringed with tentacles, 
while the base is a disk with which it adheres to the 
coral. The mouth is here, surrounded by tentacles, 
and directly below is the stomach, hanging in the 
body and held in place by six vertical partitions. 
Water in this animal seems to serve the purposes 
of blood." 

"His blood is no 'thicker than water,' then?" 
said Douglas, with an air of sober inquiry. 



The Professor smiled indulgently and resumed : 
" The tentacles, under the microscope, are seen to 
be covered with minute cavities, in each of which 
is coiled a delicate, hair-like javelin that is darted 
out on the slightest provocation. Now, if a small 
crab or shrimp bumps against these tentacles, 
myriads of these darts shoot out, striking and par- 
alyzing the intruder, and the tentacles draw it down 
into the stomach of the anemone." 

'• Have they no eyes ? " asked Tom. 

"Yes," said the Professor, "they are here, at 
the base of the tentacles, but are too small to be 
seen in this little specimen. The anemone are 
produced from eggs, or by what is called budding. 
The latter process is extremely simple, the animal 
apparently tearing off bits of its disk as it moves 
along, each of which in a few days throws out ten- 
tacles and becomes a new anemone. I have man- 
ufactured them by hundreds, cutting off little pieces 
from the disk, each piece very accommodatingly 
turning into a young actinia." 

" It would be a cheap business to go into — all 
you need is one anemone to start it," said Douglas 
with a laugh. 

" Hardly a profitable one, nevertheless," said 
the Professor. 

The mast of the smack could now be seen beyond 
the beach. Paublo, who had been searching for 
turtle's eggs, hailed the dinghy, and soon after 
they were alongside. An awning was rigged over 
the stern and tempered the heat so that it was 
not too great for comfort. Toward evening a breeze 
sprang up, and as they had nothing to detain them 
longer, Professor Howard proposed that they run 
on, the wind being favorable, so as to reach Gar- 
den Key in the morning. The smack was accord- 
ingly got under way, and they were soon driving 
along toward Rebecca Shoals, leaving Marquesas 
far astern. 

Chapter IV. 

When the boys staggered up on deck about 
daybreak next morning, they found the Sallie 
spinning along at a brisk rate, a strange dinghy- 
towing astern, and two men, evidently its owners, 
sitting on the weather rail of the smack. These, 
the boys soon learned, were "Long John" and 
Rob Rand, pilots and fishermen among the Keys, 
who had come aboard during the night, having 
been hired by the Professor to act as guides and 
assistants to the expedition, during its stay among 
the Tortugas. The morning was perfect. To 
the starboard and north, a large Key was seen , 
apparently hanging in the water. This was East 
Key, while beyond it Middle and Sand Keys ap- 
peared like bits of silver against the blue of the 
Gulf. Dead ahead was Brush Key, beyond rose 

the grim walls of a great fortress, while still farther 
away, seemingly from out a long line of mist, rose 
the tall tower of Loggerhead Light-house. All 
around the group and far to the south stretched 
a line of foam that seemed to indicate impassable 
reefs. Gradually the walls of the fortress came 
more plainly into view, the boys could distinguish 
the waves as they beat upon the coral shores and, 
running past Sand Key, the Sallie suddenly went 
about and headed up the narrow channel that 
led to the east of the fort. 

At a word from Paublo, the boys manned the 
halyards and jib down-haul, Paublo luffed the 
smack and, as she came up, away went the anchor, 
the mainsail came rattling down, and the Sallie 
lay snugly moored under the frowning walls of Fort 
Jefferson on Garden Key. 

Long John shoved off to bring the luggage- 
boat, and the Professor reported that he had made 
arrangements for the party to sleep on shore. 

As Long John rowed away in his dinghy, the 
boys were surprised to see a pelican that had been 
quietly flying overhead suddenly circle down and 
alight on the boatman's head, flapping its great 
wings and uttering a queer asthmatic sound. 

John pushed the bird away, and it then tried to 
alight on Bob Rand, but failing this, it settled 
down in the dinghy as if determined to have a 
ride anyway, whether welcomed or not. 

"Well, that 's the queerest thing I ever saw," 
said Tom Derby, as the boys looked laughingly 
on. " Are all the birds around here as tame as 
that, Paublo ? " 

"Not all, sir," replied Paublo. "That 's one 
of John's pets. It follows him all over, just as a 
pet dog might ; and when he 's too lazy to fish, the 
old pelican will do it for him. They are a queer 
pair. Long John could tame anything. You 
must see his pets. He has some of the oddest 

Bob Rand was soon sculling back a large flat- 
bottomed boat, into which the luggage was thrown, 
and after its return the boys eagerly scrambled in, 
and quickly reached the shore. The land outside 
the fort was only about an acre in extent, and con- 
tained several old buildings used as store-house, 
hospital, and laborers' quarters, while the fort was 
garrisoned during the busy war-days. All were now 
deserted except the large building. Here the two 
pilots lived, and it was to be the temporary home 
of the expedition. The boys were conducted into 
a large room upon the second story, the windows 
of which opened on a large piazza, overlooking the 
harbor. They speedily made themselves at home. 
Knapsacks were emptied, boxes unpacked, the 
alcohol was poured into numerous small cans, 
books and drawing implements, microscopes and 




other apparatus were placed in order on a large 
table in an adjoining room, and the expedition was 
now, as Tom said, "ready for business." 

The weather was delightful ; the mellow moon- 

light streamed through the open window, and from 
the distant reef came the sullen roar of the surf, 
above which was heard occasionally the cry of a 
laughing gull. 

Next day the great fort was thoroughly explored. 
The boys wandered through the groves of cocoa- 
palms, bananas, and climbing-vines that gave 
Garden Key its name, paced the cedar avenue 
that led up to headquarters, and even played a 
game of base-ball on the pleasant parade-ground, 
turfed with Bermuda grass. Finally, their wan- 
derings brought them opposite the entrance to the 

fort, and near by an overhanging boat-house they 
found an aquarium of rock-coral some twenty feet 
square. Here Tom Derby and Bob Carrington 
lingered, while the other boys ran along the sea- 
wall that encircled the 
moat. Derby and Car- 
rington were soon joined 
at the aquarium by Pro- 
fessor Howard and Long 
John. The latter had a 
piece of conch in his 
hand, and drawing a 
he proceeded to cut off 
little pieces of the meat 
and toss them to the 
motley crowd of fishes that 
scurried to the surface. 
The fish were so tame that 
they almost jumped out of 
the water in their efforts to 
reach their protector. 

The fish were new to the 

boys, and most interesting, 

owing to the great variety 

of shapes and colors. 

" Oh, is n't that an angel-fish ? " cried Tom, as in and 

out among John's queer pets darted a fish of gorgeous 

colors. Slashes of blue, gold, brown, and white covered 

the body, while the long dorsal and ventral fins gave 

the marine dandy a most fantastic appearance, not 

unlike that of a gayly dressed harlequin. 

" Yes, that is an angel-fish," replied 
the Professor, " and the species are 
well named, too, I think, for they are 
the most beautiful of fishes." 

Long John here stooped down and 
put his hands into the water, with 
fingers spread apart. Three or four 
little fishes at once swam between his 
fingers, rubbing their gills against 
them in the most friendly manner. 
On the surface floated several gar- 
fish, their long, delicate noses armed 
with sharp teeth ; parrot-fish, with 
real bills ; cow-fish with horns ; snappers, porgies, 
toad-fish, and numerous others, all crowding each 
other and fighting for the white bits of shell-fish 
tossed in to them by Long John. 

" There 's one fish that don't get anything," 
said Bob. " And see how he acts when the others 
come near. He acts just as if he was trying to hit 
them with his tail." 

" That 's exactly what he is doing," said Long 
John, " and every time. He does n't belong here, 
but he comes in every day. Just hand me that 
net and I '11 show you what he does." 

i83 9 .; 


68 3 

Tom handed the scoop-net, and Long John dex- 
terously inserting it under the fish, landed him 
under the boys' eyes. He looked much like a com- 
mon porgie, but when Long John, telling the boys 
to watch, touched the fish with his knife, to their 
surprise a sharp knife darted out of a sheath near 
the fish's tail, and was as suddenly sheathed again. 

'• Gracious, it 's a regular knife, is n't it ? " cried 
Bob, with wide open eyes. 

" You 'd think so, if you should feel it," said 
Long John. " Every fish that comes in range 
thinks so, too, for this wicked little chap gives 'em 
a slash, just as you saw him doing when he flung 
his tail round." 

" It is called the Acantharus chiruygus, which 
may be translated doctor-fish," said the Professor, 
as he touched the fish again, and the ugly-looking 
knife was thrust forth. 

" I reckon if he knew he had such a handle as 
that to his name he 'd be so mad he 'd kill every 

"' Keep still," whispered Long John, with warn- 
ing finger. " Keep quiet and you '11 see a game 
of leap-frog." 

And, sure enough, they did, but the "frogs" 
were a turtle and the fish. The hawk's-bill was float- 
ing with its back several inches out of water, when 
suddenly a gar-fish leaped completely over him. 
Another tried, half-turning in the air, three more 
followed suit, — one turning a complete somer- 
sault, — while still another, not quite so dexterous, 
failed in his act of lofty tumbling and landed 
plump on the turtle's back, startling him so that 
he dove out of sight. 

" Well, I did n't know that fishes played games 
before," said Tom. 

"They do though," replied Long John, "and 
as for these fellows, they give that poor turtle no 
peace. The minute he comes to the surface they 
begin their tricks, and if they can't jump over 
him, they find some floating stick or straw and 


fish in the place," said Long John, with a chuckle, 
as he threw the vicious fellow back. 

Other fish swam in mid-water — delicate jelly- 
fishes coming to the surface now and then with a 
graceful sweep of their waving tentacles, several 
small green-turtles, and here and there a good- 
sized hawk's-bill or tortoise-shell turtle, the kind 
furnishing the shell from which combs are made. 

practice on that. Oh, fishes are much the same 
as you boys, I tell you, — full of fun and all kinds 
of nonsense." 

The rest of the party now joined them, and 
Long John spent some time in exhibiting his pets, 
while the Professor drew their attention to the 
different kinds of coral which grew in the aquarium. 

"John has given us the use of this house," he 




said later, " and it is exactly the place for our 
studies. I shall have the books and instruments 
brought here where you can study at leisure the 
habits of your collections both theoretically and 

Paublo, who had spent the morning fitting out 
a boat for use on the reef, now came up to report 
that it was in readiness, and the whole part}' 
started for the middle wharf, where both the reef- 
boat and the dinghy awaited them. In the former 
had been placed two large cans containing alcohol 
for the reception of specimens. A number of long 
coral-hooks (iron instruments or tongs not unlike 
small oyster-claws) and eight or nine " grains " — 

(To A 

long poles ending in two-tined spear-heads, with 
barbed points — were arranged in the boats, and 
over the bows were hung several scoop-nets. A 
jug called a "monkey," used for carrying water, 
with the oars and a sprit-sail, completed the outfit 
of the reef-boat, while the dinghy carried the small 
seine and also provided room for the overflow of 

Dinner was quickly over, and then, as Professor 
Howard called out, "All aboard for the reef! " a 
rush was made to the wharf, and in high spirits 
the young naturalists were speedily under way, 
pulling with rapid strokes across the deep blue 
water toward the outer reefs. 


By Tudor Jenks. 

When Dorothy and I took tea, we sat upon the floor, 

No matter how much tea I drank, she always gave me more ; 

Our table was the scarlet box in which her tea-set came, 

Our guests, an armless, one-eyed doll, a wooden horse gone lame. 


She poured out nothing, very fast, — the tea-pot tipped on high,— 

And in the bowl found sugar lumps unseen by my dull eye. 

She added rich (pretended) cream — it seemed a willful waste, 

For though she overflowed the cup, it did not change the taste. 

She asked, "Take milk?" or "Sugar?" and though I answered, "No, 

She put them in, and told me that I " must take it so ! " 

She 'd say, " Another cup, Papa ? " and I, " No, thank you, Ma'am," 

But then I had to take it — her courtesy was sham. 

Still, being neither green, nor black, nor English-breakfast tea, 

It did not give her guests the " nerves" — whatever those may be. 

Though often I upset my cup, she only minded when 

I would mistake the empty cups for those she 'd filled again. 

She tasted my cup gingerly, for fear I 'd burn my tongue ; 

Indeed, she really hurt my pride — she made me feel so young. 

I must have drank some two-score cups, and Dorothy sixteen, 

Allowing only needful time to pour them, in between. 

We stirred with massive pewter spoons, and sipped in courtly ease, 

With all the ceremony of the stately Japanese. 

At length she put the cups away. " Good-night, Papa," she said; 

And I went to a real tea, and Dorothy to bed. 

68 5 

M • : > 

By Francis Randall. 

l ^_^ 

YOU see us here upon our farm, 
My tall, straight wife and I. 

We lead a very quiet life — 
Which no one can deny. 

Our pig was never known to grunt, 

Nor yet our cow to moo; 
Our sheep has never made a bleat. 

We think it strange. Don't you ? 

There 's one tree in our orchard ; and 
We can not tell the reason, 

It never yet has borne us fruit — 
It 's always out of season. 

Another matter troubles us, 
And sorely hurts our pride : - 

The man that made our pretty 
Forgot to make inside. 

To paint the house so gay was 

But what a poor inventor, 
To make it of a solid block 

Impossible to enter ! 

And then our barn is quite absurd. 

In height it 's not as big 
As is our cow ; in length it 's just 

The length of our white pig. 

But Jennie is our dearest friend ; 

She loves our pretty cattle. 
And often talks to us for hours 

In sweet and loving prattle. 

If barn and house were rightly made- 
They 're not, oh, what a pity ! — 

We 'd advertise, in summer-time, 
For boarders from the city. 




3 Aib^w 

_ §y 

mm "^; 


Dame Wright 
had just taken 
the last loaves 
from the oven, 
and was dust- 
ing off some 
ashes from the 
wooden bread- 
shovel before 
she replaced it 
in its corner. 
Clear spring 
sunlight streamed into the kitchen, warming the 
stone floor to a deep brown color, and touch- 
ing the mugs and platters on the dresser, till 
they fairly winked back' its brightness. A robin 
outside was whistling gayly, and a long branch 
of lilac buds peeped in at the wide-swung upper 
door, as if desirous of finishing its career in 
the blue and gold pitcher which stood on the 
dresser, even before it had attained to bloom on 
its own native bush. A patter of flying feet 
sounded outside, and the lower door was flung 
hastily open, revealing a little figure in a long, 
blue cloak, the hood of which, fallen back, dis- 
covered a head of short-cropped, curly hair. Lae- 
titia's eyes were dilated with surprise and terror, 
and before the astonished dame could comment on 
her disheveled appearance, she gasped out : 

" Oh, Grandmother, the British are crossing the 
valley, and Master Paxton saith they will camp 
here at nightfall ! He saith thou and Grandfather 
must hasten to depart at once. Thou shalt have 
two of his horses, and accompany him to the huts 
on the mountain side ! " 

"Neighbor Paxton is a kindly man. Calm 
thyself, Laetitia. When thou hast thy breath, run 
to the mill, child, and bid thy grandfather come. 
Alas ! for these troublous times when the aged and 
children fly before the march of strong men ! " 

With a sad, anxious face, she began instant 
preparations, while Laetitia, hurriedly pulling her 
hood over her curls, sped down the path toward the 

mill. She met her grandfather coming homeward. 
He was old, feeble, and bent, clad in homespun. 

" Laetitia," he said, as she trotted along at li is 
side, "vex not thy grandmother this day with 
foolish terrors, but lend thy help like the willing 
little handmaiden that thou art, and remember 
that all things come from the hand of the Lord." 

Laetitia glanced up at his face. 

"But will not the redcoats spoil the house of 
goods and furniture, perhaps burn thy dear home, 
Grandfather, and thou an old man without sons — 
and Grandmother, too, so old ? " 

" I know not, my daughter. So far, the Lord 
hath spared my gray hairs, though this war hath 
taken the five boys, my five brave lads ! " His 
voice shook. "But thou must be brave, Laetitia. 
Thou art our one ewe lamb." 

"I will, then, Grandfather. Not another tear 
will I shed." 

They entered the yard, bright with violet- 
sprinkled grass, and found Dame Wright busily 
packing what she could into secret places, and 
piling up household treasures, for burial in the 
woods. Laetitia flitted hither and yon all day, 
her nimble little feet and clever head saving the 
old people much worry and fatigue. She was 
kneeling in a roomy closet upstairs, searching out 
her grandmother's camlet cloak, when her bright 
eyes fell on her grandfather's ink-horn and quill 
pen lying on some deep-blue paper. As she had 
gone about from room to room, up and down the 
old house, more and more the fear had grown upon 
her that it was for the last time. The thought of 
her grandparents homeless and desolate, of rough 
soldiers clanking about the house with devastating 
hands, filled the soft eyes with tears and caused 
her heart to throb. The ink and paper were a sug- 
gestion. She ran downstairs with the cloak, and 
finding that neither grandfather nor grandmother 
needed her at that instant, she returned to the 
closet and carefully prepared ner writing materials. 
The quill was new and the ink good. Slowly 
and thoughtfully the little fingers guided the goose- 

6S 7 




feather along the faint lines, first across one sheet, 
and then across another. When the task was fin- 
ished, Laetitia raised her flushed face and surveyed 
the result with satisfaction, and no small degree of 
hope shone in her eyes. It ran : 

" To the Redcoats : I am Laetitia Wright, aged 
fourteen, who live in this house with my grandparents. 
They are old and feeble folk, gentle and peaceful to 
friend and foe. I pray you, dear Redcoats, spare their 
home to them, and do not burn nor ruin our house. Per- 
haps thou hast a little maid like me in England, and old 
parents. Thou couldst not 
burn the roof from over their 
heads, and in such pity and 
mercy, spare ours ! We leave 
thee much to eat, and would 
leave thee more, were our 
store larger. Signed, 

" Laetitia Wright." 

This was neatly written 
on both papers, and Lae- 
titia, tucking them into 
her pocket, slipped off to 
her duties with a lighter 
heart. The last prepa- 
rations were soon made, 
and they started to join 
the little cavalcade already 
in line, to travel up the 
side of Orange Mountain 
to the log huts built there, 
in readiness for such in- 
vasions as this. 

" Alas, my geese ! " ex- 
claimed Laetitia, when 
with tearful eyes they had 
turned their backs on the 
low, white house. " My 
geese are still in the pen, 
Grandmother ! Let me 
hasten back and turn 
them loose." 

Permission was given 
her, and away she darted 
across the brook, on its 
rough foot-log, and to the 
goose-pen. There were 
her snow-white geese and 
the gray gander. They 
were Laetitia's particular 
pride and care, and knew her well, but, only stop- 
ping to stroke one smooth back, she opened the 
wicket and drove them, honking and hissing, into 
the woods. Then she pulled the papers from her 
pocket, and hastily slipping one below the kitchen 
door, she fastened the other on the front-door 
knocker, and, rejoining her grandparents, was 

soon mounted behind her grandfather in the little 
procession which wound slowly up the rough 
mountain road to shelter and safety. 

At sunset the British reached the village, and 
though but a small detachment proceeded to 
occupy every available building. The peaceful 
quiet and exquisite neatness of the Wright home- 
stead were rudely invaded by coarse laughter, loud 
shouts, and the tramp of heavy boots and chink of 

One of the officers soon found and read the note 



of Laetitia's which was under the knocker, while 
a soldier, a stalwart, good-natured fellow, spelled 
out the other in the kitchen. Colonel Ross looked 
long and contemplatively at the crude, childish 
characters, and his stern face softened. 

" Thou 'rt a bold little lass and a leal one," he 
muttered under his breath. " Thou must take us 

i3s 9 .; 



throughout the village, and no damage 
was to be done to goods or furniture. 

Just as the men, hungry and tired, 
were searching for supper, along the 
brook came Laetitia's geese toward 
their pen. 

A shout welcomed them and they 
were quickly seized and dispatched. 
All but the gander. One young soldier 
had a knife raised to kill this squawk- 
ing fowl, when he paused suddenly. 
"Mistress Laetitia, since this bird 
may be thine, I '11 spare him out of 
courtesy," he said, gayly, as he popped 
the old gander into the open pen. 
"He will make thee a good roast, 
ere thou hast the wherewithal to re- 
fer fiends to destroy thy home after this." He fill thy empty larder." So the solitary gander 
glanced at the humble cottage so bravely pleaded escaped with his life. 

for, and then across to the mountains, where a faint Next night, at sunset, the bugles blew the march- 
spring twilight was falling and the young moon ing-signal, and the sound echoed and re-echoed up 
shone out pale and clear. the silent valley, penetrating to the little huts in 

Insensibly his thoughts drifted to his own English the forest, where there was anxious watching for 
home, where that same moon would light up his the red light of burning homes, and smoke of de- 
little Cicely's casement. His own little lass ! There stroyed crops. But the night fell and waned, and 
was a heart under that terrible red jacket. not a glimmer shone to indicate such calamity to 


Striding into the kitchen, he found a knot of 
men commenting on the other letter, and his 
orders soon went forth that no pillage except for 
necessary food and fodder was to be indulged in every house 

Vol. XVI.— 44. 

the fugitives. Early next morning the little band 

returned to the village. Instead of wailing and 

tears, shouts of joy and thanksgiving arose from 

Dirt and disorder reigned supreme, 



but not one broken chair nor mutilated dish told of 
wanton recklessness. In a day or two all could be 
restored, except for the depopulated poultry roosts, 
and several pigs which were missing. The sown 
fields, were not trampled, and the door-yard flowers 
still budded unharmed. 

Laetitia's little heart beat with thankfulness, but 
she kept quite silent. As they dismounted before 
their own door she saw the disconsolate gander 
solemnly perambulating the green, like some self- 
imposed guardian. " Alas, for the rest of the 
flock ! " cried Dame Wright. "But what has the 
fowl on its neck ? Such a burden I never saw on 
gander before." 

Laetitia sprang forward, and, kneeling down, 
detached a little bag and a slip of paper. The bag 
chinked with coin, and a dimpled smile broke 
over her hitherto anxious little face as she read 
the slip. 

" Listen, Grandmother, and dear Grandfather ! " 
she cried, gleefully. Evidently the gay soldier had 
written it. 

"Sweet Mistress Wright, 
We bid you good-night, 
'T is time for us soldiers to wander. 

We 've paid for your geese, 
A penny apiece, 

And left the change with the gander. 

" Though redcoats we be, 
You plainly will see, 

We know how to grant a petition. 
With rough soldier care, 
We 've endeavored to spare 

Your homes in a decent condition." 

It was signed by the colonel and by a number of 
the soldiers. Then, in reply to her grandparents' 
astonished questions, she shyly told them about 
her petitions, and the daring with which she had 
left them at the doors. 

Fervent were the blessings called down on her 
pretty, curly head when the news was spread 
abroad, but she only laughed merrily and escaped 
them when she could. 

" It is as thou saidst, Grandfather," she declared, 
as she tossed some corn to the bereft gander. 
" The Lord's hand stayed that of the enemy, and 
perhaps," stopping to pick a violet while a sweet 
look came into her face, " the redcoats have hearts 
like ours." "Ay, and obedient daughters to 
touch them to good deeds," said Dame Wright, as 
she lovingly kissed Laetitia's upturned face. 

By Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

Shall I give your love to your mother? : 
He said to the maid of three. 

For her mother had gone to a country 
Where presently he should be. , 

What calm in the eyes of azure, 

What snow on the innocent brow, 
How sweet was that voice of slow music,- 
" My mother has my love now ! " 


By Charles Barnard. 

fFyou little fellows 
are not careful 
you will be caught 
some day." 

This is what an 
old bird said as 
he sat on the 
fence, one morn- 
ing in June. The 
little fellows " 
■listened a mo- 
ment and then 
they rushed off 
to their play in 
the fields. The 
sky was clear and 
blue, and they could see any dangerous creature 
that might appear, while it was yet a long way 
off. They would have plenty of time to scurry 
away, to get home before it could catch them, 
or, at least, to hide deep in the bushes till it had 

"It 's a queer world!" said one very small 
chap. " What with telegraph wires hung up in 
the most unexpected places, and the railroad 
with all the noise and smoke, and those terrible 
hawks, it does seem as if we could not have a min- 
ute's peace. It 's 'look out there,' or 'run away 
from this,' or ' fly away from that,' all the time." 

" Oh ! I 'in not afraid," said one youngster. 
" I did run into a telegraph wire the first day 
it was put up, but now I dodge them all." 

" I never can abide the trains," said a small 
Miss, in speckled gray. " I know they do no 
harm, but they frighten me just the same, and I 
always fly away." 

" I can stand nearly everything but the hawks," 
said one of the older ones in the party. 

They all agreed nobody could abide hawks. If 
it were not for the fact that they could run and 
hide when the hawks appeared, life would not be 
worth living. 

High in the air, wheeling slowly round and 
round in great circles, was a hawk looking 
sharply down on the country, spread out like a 
map beneath him. He could see the fields, the 
woods, the brooks and ponds, the roads, and the 
railway. There were chickens down in the farm- 

yards. He must move slowly and cautiously so 
as not to attract attention and alarm the cock 
and hens. If he was careful, perhaps he could 
have spring chicken for breakfast. Suddenly he 
dropped, like a stone, out of the sky right into 
a farm-yard. Ah ! They saw him and ran, and 

-oh! — there was a man with a 


! The 

hawk turned and darted into the air, while a 
shower of shot whistled after him. 

How vexatious ! No chicken this time. The 
sun was now more than an hour high and he had 
eaten nothing since the afternoon before, when he 
had caught a sparrow in a wheat-field. He circled 
round and round, keeping a sharp lookout for a 
breakfast. Ah ! here was just the thing, — a whole 
flock of little birds holding a meeting in a field 
next to the railroad. 

He steered off to one side and then made a bold 
dart right in among them. Away they flew in every 
direction and in a moment were jeering at him 
from the bushes. He sprang up into the air and 
sailed round and round, very hungry and in a 
discontented frame of mind. 

The meeting of the little fellows resumed its ses- 
sion, and one small speaker made a brave speech 
about not caring for anything. He could get out 
of the way at any time. He was not the one to be 
afraid of — 

Just then a train rushed by on the railroad and 
the meeting adjourned in a hurry. The speaker 
tumbled from the fence-rail and the audience 
scampered off quite demoralized by fright. 

" Ha ! ha ! " remarked the hawk. " That gives 
me an idea ! I '11 have regular breakfasts after 

He looked up and down the railroad for miles 
in each direction and saw a train coming. He 
flew that way and soon met it tearing along with a 
great uproar and much smoke. It was a trifle 
alarming at first, but he bravely followed it and 
found he could easily keep up with the cars, 
though the smoke made his eyes smart. He flew 
close behind the last car, right in the smoke and 
dust where he could not be seen. As the train 
rushed' along, he could see the small birds scat- 
tering away on each side, frightened out of their 
wits by the noise and smoke. 

Swoop ! The train rushed on and sly Mr. Hawk 




clapped his claws on a sparrow and then flew 
leisurely away to enjoy his breakfast. 

Every one within a mile was on hand at the great 
indignation meeting at Cranberry Hollow. Blue 
and gray and black and red breasts — in fact, 
every little thing on wings in that part of the 

It was dreadful ! Perfectly shameful. The hawks 
had devised a horrible, a wicked trick. They flew 
behind railroad trains, and when the little birds 
were half frightened out of their wits and tried to 
run away in confusion, the hawks darted out from 
behind the cars and, pouncing upon the poor 
innocents, actually ate them up ! Such a state of 
affairs could not be tolerated. It was monstrous, 
tyrannical, and very wicked on the part of the 
hawks. Resolutions declaring the practice an un- 
fair one, and calling for its suppression, must be 
drawn up and sent by mail to all the railroad 
men, and copies must be presented to the hawks. 

Just then a venerable tomtit rose in the meet- 
ing and remarked in a severe manner that, for his 
part, he thought they had just cause for indigna- 
tion. The resolutions were highly proper and 
should be signed by all, but — reminding his hearers 
of the well-known fable of the rats, the bell, and 
the cat — he would like to ask who was to deliver 
the paper to the hawks. 

A solemn hush fell on the assembled congress. 
Not a peep was raised. It was so still you could 
have heard a pin-feather drop. 

Suddenly there was rush, a roar, and a blinding 
cloud of smoke. The committee had incautiously 
called the meeting too close to the railroad, and 
the assembly suddenly broke up in the wildest dis- 
order and confusion. 

Two minutes later a savage hawk with cruel 
claws was seated on the fence enjoying a breakfast 
and waiting for the next train, that he might repeat 
his wicked tricks. 

Such is bird life ! 



By Esther B. Tiffany. 

Says the peacock to the rabbit, 
" Who 's your tailor ? tell me, pray ; 
For, good sir, he 's cut your coat-tail 
In a most old-fashioned way. 

Look at me, 

Would you see 
What a stvlish tail should be ! " 

Says the rabbit to the peacock, 
" Who 's your barber? tell me, pray ; 
For his shears have shorn your ears, sir, 
In a most old-fashioned way. 

Look at me, 

Would you see 
What a stvlish ear should be ! " 



7\ T^ UE Incident. 

By Myra Goodwin Plantz. 

"Boys, be careful with your guns," called Mrs. 
Brown from the door where she stood watching 
them out of sight. 

" All right, Mother," they replied, laughing at 
her fears. 

" If I can't be trusted with a gun now I 'm four- 
teen, I 'd better sell out," remarked Tom. 

"Well, if I'm only going on twelve, I'm as 
good a shot," answered Harry. 

" Oh, you can shoot a chicken after it has gone 
to roost. I wish the Indians had left us something 
worth shooting," said Tom, as they climbed the 
hill behind their home. Here they paused, enjoy- 
ing the wonderful picture before them, without 
realizing what gave them the pleasure of the mo- 
ment. In the distance the deep blue waters of 
Lake Superior flashed in the sunshine. 

The broad, snow-covered belt of ice that skirted 
the water, was cleared here and there for skating, 
and a few children were enjoying this sport. No- 
where do children have more fun than in the Lake 
Superior country, for, in spite of the thermometer's 
getting so low-spirited, the children almost live out- 
of-doors, skating, coasting, or rolling down hill 
into snow-banks, as country children like to do 
in the hay. 

This village was like all mining towns. A church, 
school-house, and a number of small red houses 

owned by the company and leased to the miners, 
clustered around the shaft through which the ore 
was brought from the mine. 

Here and there a more pretentious house marked 
the home of a " boss " or mining-captain. Back 
from the lake, rugged hills were broken by wind- 
ing ravines. Tiiese hills were full of valuable 
minerals and beds of rock, and covered with heavy 
forests. In the distance the pine-trees, over a 
hundred feet high, looked like tall sentinels, and 
the maples and birches, like children just reach- 
ing to their knees. The dark green, peeping 
through the snow-laden branches, was a grateful 
break in the dazzling whiteness everywhere. 

" I 'd like it better, if a deer were over there, and 
a flock of partridges or a nest of rabbits right 
here," remarked Harry, as they left the village 
and pressed into the woods. The boys had on 
Indian snowshoes, — long frames of hickory wood 
strung with deer-sinews, — so they were able to 
walk on top of the snow without sinking through. 
In many places it would have been over their 
heads if they had sunk to the earth. Soon the 
ringing blows of the axe told them a lumber camp 
was near. The boys passed the long, low little 
hut where the choppers camped. Farther on they 
saw the men, dressed in striped red-flannel suits, 
and with flannel "chucks" on their heads. 


6 9 4 


" You 've come to the wrong place for game," 
shouted one of the lumbermen. 

" Bears have all gone to bed," laughed another. 

" We 're going to wake them up," replied Harry. 

" They 'II eat up such a little fellow as you be," 
was answered back. 

"Come, let's go the other way. Of course, 
they would frighten off everything near here. Hal, 
you are so slight ! If you 'd only grow out as well 
as up" said Tom, turning away from the men in 
disgust. " I wish I 'd brought a stronger boy." 

" That would n't have made deer and partridges 

one under that pile, there." Still Tom did not 
venture very near the pile of brush. 

'"Oh, Tom, see here! — I choose this," cried 
Harry, who was a little in advance. 

It was as pretty a baby-bear as one might wish 
to see. The cub seemed glad to see the boys, and 
gamboled around like a dog. 

" We '11 take him home and make a pet of him," 
said Tom. 

" Mother would rather see a string of fat birds, 
or a deer," said Harry ; " but for us, this is the best 
find we could have." 


come out," replied Harry, too good-natured to re- 
sent Tom's unkind remarks. 

They wandered aimlessly about for some time, 
leaving land-marks, or rather, jwcay-marks, so they 
could not lose their way. 

" I think a bear has set up winter-quarters in 
that hollow tree," said Tom, at last. 

" Well, go and stir him up," suggested Harry. 

'•Oh, we'll go farther on. Bears are more 
likely to dig a hole in the ground, or to make a- 
house of brush. I should not wonder if there was 

It was not so easy to get young Bruin away as 
they had supposed it would be. They found 
belts and strings on their clothing and in their 
pockets, but they had to give the little fellow some 
liberty or he would have broken away. At last 
they concluded to carry him ; but he struggled so 
they did not get on very fast. 

"Oh, Hal ! " Tom suddenly screamed, dropping 
the cub, " there 's the mother ! " 

Sure enough, Mamma Bear had missed her baby 
from her warm winter nest and was coming after 



him in a great rage. Tom raised his gun and fired. 
The ball entered the bear's shoulder, wounding her 
slightly. Furious with pain, she sprang upon Tom 
and began tearing at him with her claws and try- 
ing to crush him against her shaggy bosom. 

Little Harry stood for an instant paralyzed with 
fear. He knew that if he should fire, he was as 
likely to kill his brother as to kill the bear. Vet, 
Tom's only hope was in what the little brother 
could do. 

Harry crept up beside the bear, and fired. The 
next instant the bear and Tom were lying in the 
snow, which was deeply stained with blood. 

" Oh, Tommy ! " cried Harry, " are you dead ? " 

"No; but roll the bear off or I '11 smother," 
came from Tom's white lips. Harry touched the 
bear cautiously, but she made no resistance ; the 
ball had entered her brain and killed her instantly. 
Tom tried to give his little brother a good hug to 
show his joy at being alive, but he found his arms 
were so wounded in places that he was in great 
pain, and feared that his shoulder was broken, also. 

"Don't cry, after you 've been such a man," 
he said, for Harry was sobbing aloud over his 
brother's wounds. 

"The cub shall be yours, 'cause you got so 
hurt in getting him," said Harry, wiping his 

" No, he 's yours, 'cause you kept me from being 
killed altogether. I won't fling your being slim, at 
you any more, for you can shoot as well as the 
strongest kind of man ! " 

This praise made Harry feel equal to anything, 
even to dragging away the unwilling cub. The 
little fellow sniffed around his mother, whining 
piteously. But Harry was a strong boy in spite of 
his slender build, and Tom gave what help he 
could in his enfeebled condition. Little Bruin was 
as " hungry as a bear," so the lunch in Tom's bag 
was a great help in bringing him along. 

When they reached the camp they found the 
men at dinner. The "boss" ordered one of them 
to take the boys home on a wood-sled. But the 
boys insisted on taking their fallen game with 
them; so while Tom's wounds were bound up, 
after a fashion, and both boys were being well fed, 
some of the men went after the old bear. 

.Mrs. Brown's liking for hunting was not in- 
creased when the sled stopped before her door, 
with a dead bear, a live bear, and a wounded boy. 

Tom bore the doctor's stitches and his confine- 
ment so well, however, that she at last gave her 
consent to ha\e the cub kept for a playmate. The 
old bear's skin was sent to Marquette to be sold, 
and the boys treated all their friends to bear's 

" Browny " has become a great pet. Even the 
boys' mother can not but admit that he is full of 
amusing tricks. 

I believe there is a bright future for our bold 
young hunters. In time they will be brave and 
good men. But Browny acts more and more like a 
bear every day, and soon he will be altogether too 
big to be considered a pet. 


• toil I?- 




SING a song of angle-worms, pocket full of rain, 
Four-and-twenty fishermen a-fishing in the Seine: 
If the Seine had any fish, and they began to bite, 
Would n't all those fishermen be in a pretty fright ! 

I asked an ancient apple-man, who sat behind his stand, 
How long thought he it needs must be before some fish they 'd land. 
" Good sir," replied the ancient man, and wiped a tear away, 
" Belike in half-a-hundred year, if you have time to stay ! " 

Just then the strangest thing occurred that ever heart could wish, 
The fattest of the fishermen declared he felt a fish ! 
And many scoffed thereat, but he continued to be firm 
In stating that a goodly fish did nibble at the worm. 

" If he speaks sooth," the people cried, in one united breath, 

" The King and all his Councilors should be here at the death ! " 

They bade the crier ring his bell, the fisher stay his hand; 
" A prize to him who '11 guess aright what kind of fish he '11 land ! " 

Quoth one (the corner one), " A carp !" Another cried, in dudgeon 
(Their portraits you will see below), " I say 't will be a gudgeon ! " 
The third declared 't would be a sole, unless all signs did fail ; 
And one (that rather bumptious boy) felt sure 't would be a whale. 

6 9 6 


6 97 

— #i.'- : '-; A— 

The ancient apple-man alone had no fair word to say, 
But wagged his head full solemnly, in sixteenth-century way. 
" I 've vended apples hereabout for five-and-fifty year, 
And never have I seen a fish in all their fishing here ! " 

Meanwhile, the King, his crown awry, came puffing in hot haste, 
And all the Councilors, their coats unbuttoned at the waist : 
The crier gave the signal, and the bugler loudly blew, 
And then the fattest fisherman hauled in a — worn-out shoe ! 

Thereat the people waxed full wroth, and many cried, " For shame ! " 
But when they stopped to think, they saw that no one was to blame. 
As for the prize, that king so wise decided, on the whole, 
To give a. part of it to him who guessed 't would be a sole. 

For he was partly right, at least; the rest were wholly wrong. 
An act of justice that so pleased that sixteenth-century throng, 
That, save the apple-man, they all threw up their caps for joy, 
And no one wept a tear, except the rather bumptious boy. 

Now, that you may believe my tale, I put here in the book, 

The pictures that I drew of all, exactly as they look : 

The fattest fisherman, perhaps, should be a trifle fatter, 

And then the king — you know these kings ! — the king I had to flatter. 

Adeline Valentine Pond. 







By Mary E. Hawkins. 

I. The Meeting. 

MATTIE lived with her grandmother in a small 
village. She had no mother, her father was far 
away, and the little girl and Grandma had only 
the " hired help" for company. 

One afternoon Mattie was in the garden with a 
box, trying to catch a bee. She thought she would 
shut a bee in the box and keep it till it filled the 
box with honey. The bee stung her, and she ran 
crying into the kitchen to Susan. Susan put some 
flour on Mattie's wrist and told her to " leave the 
bees alone " ; but Susan did not kiss the aching 
wrist, as Grandma would have done, and Mattie 
went back into the garden, with her wrist smarting 
and much discouraged. She picked some flowers, 
and wondered where flowers kept their " smelling," 
and whether she could n't get enough of it to fill 
the box. She pulled several flowers to pieces, and, 
when she could not find their perfume, threw the 
fragments away ; a discontented look was on her 
face, and the box soon lay on the ground, without 
much prospect of being filled with anything. 

Soon the ringing of a bell turned her thoughts 
in a new direction. She wondered what made the 
meeting-house bell ring. It was n't Sunday. She 
knew, because Grandma had gone to the store, and 
Susan was working. 

While wondering about this, she remembered 
Grandma had once called the meeting-house the 
" Lord's house," and the words came to her full 
of meaning. Did the Lord live at the meeting- 
house ? Was it his house ? 

Mattie knew little of churches and meetings. 
Grandma did n't often attend church, for the only 
church in this little village was one she did n't 
'■belong to," and, besides, poor Grandma was 
so deaf she could n't hear preaching very well. 
Still, Mattie had been to this church a few times 
with Grandma. All she saw when there was 
'"folks" and the minister. Perhaps the Lord 
was n't there, those days. Was he there to-day ? 
She clasped her hands in excitement. Oh, how 
much she would like to see the Lord, and send her 
love to Mamma in heaven ! Could there be any 
harm in a little girl's going to the meeting-house 
and rapping on the door ? 

Mattie went into the house very thoughtful. She 
tried to take off her soiled apron, but her short 
arms could not reach the top button, and, some- 
how, she did not like to go to Susan. She pulled 
at the button until she set her wrist to smarting 
afresh, and then she gave it up. " P'r'aps the Lord 
will scuse me if my apron is not quite clean," she 
whispered to herself. " He knows I could n't un- 
button it, 'cause he knows every single, single 
thing. Grandma said so. 'Sides, I can hold my 
hand right over the dirty spots." 

She put on her best hat, took her parasol, and 
started out. 

The village was so little that Mattie had no 
trouble in finding the way to the meeting-house. 
Her heart beat fast as she climbed the steps and 
rapped a small rap on the half-opened door. No 
one heeded her summons, and after a while she 
pushed open the door and went in. 

There was a meeting going on. Some men sat 
on the front seats, and the minister was in the pul- 
pit. The minister saw a little girl come in, and, 
after eagerly looking around, walk softly up the 
aisle and turn into a pew. 

Mattie was quiet in the pew a very little while ; 
then she took off her hat, laid it with her parasol 
on the cushion, and turned her attention to the 

It seemed to her a strange one. For there were 
no women in the meeting, and the "folks" were 
preaching as well as the minister, and they all 
preached sitting down on the seats. The minister 
was sitting, and held his hands locked together on 
a little table. His hair was gray, like Grandma's, 
and his hands looked white and full of big bones. 
When he preached, he preached only a few words 
at a time, and Mattie thought his mouth looked 
very sorry when he got through. 

And the " little pitcher" with " long ears," hid- 
den in the pew, listened to the preaching with all 
its might. But it did n't make out much till an 
old gentleman, who had on a checked shirt and 
wore no coat, spoke up : 

" Yes, yes, brethren, what you say is very true. 
But, for all that, we should remember that a 
minister's children must have bread to eat and 
shoes to wear." 





Mattie drew her breath hard. Had the minister's 
children no bread to eat nor shoes to wear? Was 
that why his mouth looked so sorry ? Her heart was 
filled with pity, and her nervous fingers tugged at 
the buttons on her slipper. She pulled off a slip- 
per, and without stopping to think that the min- 
ister's children might have more than one foot 
apiece, she hurried into the 
aisle, and the first thing 
that the minister and the 
" folks " knew, there was a 
little girl in one stocking- 
foot flashing round the altar 
railing, holding out a little 
black slipper. 

Then there was laughing 
and exclaiming, to Mattie's 
great confusion, till the 
minister unclasped his hands 
and took the little girl, slip- 
per and all, and set her on 
his knee. He put his hand 
on her head, and the touch 
quieted her excitement. 

The minister drew the 
slipper from Mattie's hand, 
put it on her foot, and care- 
fully buttoned it. Then he 
looked up with a little smile 
and said, "Well, brethren, 
perhaps it is better to go on 
with the meeting." 

But the meeting did not 
last much longer, and soon 
he put Mattie down, and rose 
to shake hands with the 
"folks" before they went 
away. The old gentleman 
in checked shirt-sleeves 
stroked Mattie's arm and 
told her she had a heart " as 
big as a barn-door," and 
some of the others said like 
things to her. 

After the "folks" had 
gone, the minister put his 
hands behind him and walked 
back and forth in front of 
the little table. At last he 
glanced up and saw that Mattie had not gone, but 
was watching him anxiously. 

" I had a little boy, once, just as small as you," 
he said, smiling, and stopping to look at her, 
" but he is a great big boy now." 

" Has n't he any shoes to wear? " asked Mattie. 

"Shoes? Oh, I guess so. But, if he had n't, he 
could n't wear yours. Besides, he wears boots." 

Then the minister resumed his walk, and as he 
walked he talked : 

" If I could only help him until he 's through 
college ! But I can't. If they cut down my salary, 
how can I ? Poor boy ! He works hard and learns 
quickly. He is very ambitious. He'll be so dis- 
couraged and disappointed, poor boy ! " 





"You see, little girl," said the minister, again 
pausing, " my boy is at college — that 's a school, 
you know. But it costs money to study there. 
And these men — you heard them talking about 
it, did n't you ? — are going to take away one hun- 
dred dollars from what they pay me a year for 

Mattie put her hand into her pocket, when the 




minister walked again, as though she expected to 
find a hundred dollars there. She did not find it, 
and she took out her hand and spoke up sharply : 

" I think those mens are naughty mens ! " 

" Oh, no, they are not," said the minister, 
earnestly, as if Mattie's opinion were of the greatest 
importance. " You must n't say that. Times are 
hard — very hard. Butter is down — the farmers 
can't make anything. It 's really very hard times. 
The brethren are not to blame." 

Then the minister sat down in the chair and 
looked hard at Mattie, with an expression of inquiry, 
just as if he had not seen her before. 

" How did you happen to come to official 
meeting? " 

" I did n't come to 'ficial meeting," said Mattie. 
" I did n't know it went. I only just corned." 

" Why did you come to the meeting-house? " 

" I wanted to see the Lord," Mattie whispered, 
very solemnly. " Is he here ?" 

The minister looked around the church quickly. 

" Oh ! I hope so. I really hope so. I should 
be sorry to think he had n't been present at the 
meeting." Then he looked back to Mattie. " But, 
my dear little girl, you did n't expect to see the 
Lord with your eyes, did you ? Just as you see me 
now ? " 

Mattie nodded brightly. 

" How mistaken you were ! The Lord is here, — 
he knows what we are saying to each other. But 
we can't see him with the eyes we have now. When 
we get to heaven we hope to see him as he is." 

"Why did you wish to see the Lord?" asked 
the minister, after a pause. 

" I was only just but going to pray, and to send 
my love to my mamma up in heaven," said Mattie. 

" Oh! your mother is in heaven? Who takes 
care of you then, dear?" 

" My grandma." 

" Do you pray at home?" asked the minister. 
" Does anybody teach you that ? " 

" My grandma teached me," said Mattie. 

" That is right. But the church is a good place 
to pray in, — a beautiful place. People come here 
to pray. Do you see this cushion in front of the 
railing ? " and the minister rose and pointed down 
to it. 

" A good many people have kneeled there to 
pray," he said, as Mattie looked. " See how ragged 
the cushion is — that is where their knees have 
been. If you like, you can go round and kneel 
down there too, and pray to the Lord. I feel sure 
he will hear you, for he loves children." 

Somehow, Mattie was not bashful before this 
minister with the "sorry " mouth, though she was 
usually timid before strangers. She went around 
and, picking out a particularly worn and dented 

spot, kneeled on the cushion. Her dark little 
head was quiet against the railing a moment — 
then it came up quickly. 

" I will pray about your little boy if you wish 
me to." 

" Do, dear child," said the minister. 

"Oh, Lord! give the minister a hundred dol- 
lars so he can give it to his little boy," said Mattie, 
in a low voice. 

"Amen," said the minister, soberly. "But we 
will say, ' Thy will be done,' won't we? "he added. 
"Say it, my child. Your prayer won't be right 
without it. •' Thy will be done.' " 

'" Thy will be done,' " Mattie repeated, and 
then rose quickly. 

The minister took his hat. "Now, my little 
sister, I think perhaps we should go." 

Mattie looked at him with wondering eyes. 
Never before had she been called " My little 

" I call you that because we both are Christians," 
he said, smiling; "and because in the church we 
often call one another ' brother ' or ' sister.' " 

Mattie was content. She took her hat and para- 
sol from the pew and stood by the minister while 
he locked the church door. 

"Now you must tell me where you live," he said, 
as he took her hand in his. 

As they were walking along, Mattie noticed the 
spot on her apron which she had intended to keep 
covered with her hand. She had forgotten it. She 
was much mortified. 

"I hope you will scuse my apron," she said, 

The minister looked down at her apron. " It is 
rather untidy. But I know a worse thing than an 
unclean apron. Do you know what it is ? " 

"I guess it 's a dirty dress," said Mattie. 

" Oh, no. It 's an unkind heart. Do you know 
what the heart is ? " 

" Oh, yes, I know. It keeps a-going, and 
a-going, and won't never hold still." 

" Well, if we think wrong thoughts or have bad 
feelings in these hearts, they get so the Lord can 
not live in them. He lives in good, clean hearts. 
My little girl, do you want your heart like a little 
church, with the Lord staying in it, so that you 
need not go a step away from yourself to find 

" Oh ! I would like to," said Mattie, her imagi- 
nation all astir. 

" Then be a good child. You can't know much 
yet, but you can be a little Christian, nevertheless." 

Grandma and Susan had but just found out that 
Mattie was not in the garden, when they saw her 
coming home with the minister. Grandma was 
surprised and somewhat " flustered," but she in- 





vited the minister into the parlor, and got her ear- 
trumpet so that she could talk with him. And 
Mattie looked and listened rather anxiously, for it 
had just occurred to her that she had run away. 

II. What Came Of It. 

This is the way Mattie wrote to her papa : 
First, Grandma wrote about Mattie. Then Mattie 
sat on the table and talked into Grandma's ear- 
trumpet and Grandma wrote what she said. Papa 

' And 


But the minister told me things. He said if I was good 
my heart would be just like a little meeting-house. That 
is why I 'm not going to be naughty. I s'pose when I 
get awful good, my heart will tick like a little bell ring- 
ing, Sunday. Grandma said the minister did n't mean 
a really, truly meeting-house, but our thoughts and 
thinkings are the little folks that go and sit down in our 
hearts, and stand up and sing. 

" I think hearts are very funny. They do things so. 
I wish any one was little enough to go in where their 
hearts be. 

the minister came right home with me and 
took hold of my hand, and I 
carried my little pink parasol. 
" The minister's little boy 
is pretty big. But he can't 
never go to college-school 
any more, 'cause the folks 
in the meeting-house was 
preaching about not giving 
the minister a hundred dol- 
lars to give to his little boy, 
so he could go some more. 
Don't you think they are 
pretty naughty ? But the 
minister said they was n't. 

" But I 'most forgot to tell 
the rest about the meeting. 
So I sat in the minister's lap 
till it was out. And then he 
talked to me and said things. 
And then he came right 
home with me (and that 
was when he said about my 
heart and a meeting-house). 
And so, I came home. And 
so, I can't think of any more 
'cause my throat is tired, 
and my dear Grandma's 
arm, that she holds her ear- 
trumpet with, is pretty tired, 
too. So I send seven bushels 
of my love to my dear Papa. 
Martha Alice Brant." 

In a few days an answer 
came. When Grandma 

was particular that Mattie's part of the letter should 
be " out of her own head." 

This is Mattie's part of a letter: 

" Dear Papa : Grandma says it is time enough to 
write again, so I am sitting on the table sending you a 

" I s'pose Grandma has wroted about me and if I was 
naughty. I was pretty naughty running away to the 

" Papa — are n't you very glad? — I 'm not never go- 
ing to be naughty again ! 

" The reason I went to the meeting-house was 'cause 
I wanted to pray the Lord and send my love to my dear 
Mamma. The Lord was there, only I could n't see him 
'cause my eyes was different. The minister said so. 

opened the envelope she found inside another 
letter, sealed and directed to the minister in the 
father's handwriting. 

Here is what was at tlie end of Papa's letter to 
Mattie : 

" I think you are old enough to begin to form church- 
going habits, to go to Sunday-school and learn little 
verses and catechisms. If dear Grandma can't take you, 
Susan must, till Grandma thinks you might go alone. 

" You see, I have written a letter to the minister. Ask 
Grandma to please dress you neatly, and let Susan take 
you to call on him. Hand him the letter and say it is 
one your Papa sent in yours. If he does not read it to 
you, I will tell you what is in it when I write again. Of 
course you are not to ask him to read it, for that would 




be impolite. Good-bye, my little girl. Don't forget 
Papa in your prayers, for he never forgets you in his. 

J. S. Brant." 

The next day Mattie went to call on the minister. 
Susan held her hand in a tight grasp, and Mattie 
felt very solemn and important with the letter to 
the minister in the pocket of her stiff little white 

When they reached the house, Susan rang the 
bell, and the lady with whom the minister boarded 
came to the door. For the minister had no family 
except his boy who was away at school, and it was 
only a figure of speech which the old gentleman 
in the checked shirt-sleeves had used, when he 
spoke of the minister's children. Mattie knew 
nothing about figures of speech, and she was dis- 
appointed that she did not see the barefoot chil- 
dren playing about. 

Susan told the lady that "this little girl" had 
an errand to the minister, and the lady led them 
to his study. The minister opened the door, his 
mouth looking as sorry as it had looked that other 
day, and his hands looking paler and bigger, coming 
out of the short, wrinkled sleeves of his study coat. 

When they were seated in the study, Susan 
motioned to Mattie to begin. But Mattie did n't 
know how. 

" It 's a fine day," said the minister, as if willing 
to help them. 

" Yes, sir ; it is," said Susan. " But I ain't the 
one. It 's this girl," and she pushed her chair 
closer to Mattie, and gave her a nudge with her 
elbow. " She 's got the errand." 

" Oh ! " sriid the minister, his eyes resting upon 
Mattie till a very small smile came to his mouth. 
" Oh, certainly ! You are the young lady who 
came to my official meeting. You must pardon 
me for not recognizing you," he said, rising to 
shake hands. ''I fear my eyes are dim to-day. 
I have been writing a letter — along, unpleasant 
letter — and it gave me a headache. " 

" Have you been writing to your little boy?" 
asked Mattie. 

" Yes, I have," said the minister. Susan touched 
her and told her not to be " forward." 

" I don't think she is ' forward,' " said the minis- 
ter, answering the whisper. " I am glad some- 
body is interested in my bey, — poor fellow ! " The 
minister started to walk with his hands behind 
him, as he had walked in the church, but he 
stopped himself and went back to his chair. 

"What is your errand to me?" he asked, the 
little smile all gone. 

" Oh ! " said Mattie, jumping up and tugging 
at her pocket. " It 's a letter my papa wroted, 
inside to you — inside, I mean, to me — to you — 
inside " 

She stopped short in her snarl of words and car- 
ried the letter to the minister, then went and sat 
by Susan again. 

The minister was a long while reading the let- 
ter. At last he laid it on the table, and with his 
finger beckoned Mattie to him. 

" I wish you to tell your father something, when 
you write again," he said, as she stood before him. 
" Will you remember? " 

Mattie nodded. 

He put his fingers one by one upon the table, 
marking pauses between his words. " I want you 
to say — to your father — that he has a daughter — 
who is worthy of her father — and that he is wor- 
thy of his daughter." 

Mattie looked doubtful about remembering. The 
words seemed as snarled as her own had been. 

" I am afraid you will forget it. I must write it 
down for you." 

" My papa is a pretty nice man," said Mattie, 
speaking up sharply as the minister began to write, 
for his solemn way of putting down his fingers had 
made her uneasy. 

" That 's what it means," he said. " It means 
that he is a nice man, and that you are a nice 

" Oh ! " said Mattie, much relieved. She tucked 
into her pocket the bit of paper he handed her, 
and then looked wistfully at the letter on the table. 

" My papa wroted you a pretty long letter, 
didn't he?" she asked, hesitatingly. 

" No, he did n't," said the minister, taking it up. 
" It 's short. But it 's weighty, — very weighty." 

Mattie was surprised. " I carried it my own 
self, right in my pocket." 

The minister looked at her with a smile almost 
as happy as other people's smiles. " So you think it 
can't be very heavy ? But, my dear child, it seems 
to me that it weighs a ton, — a ton of kindness ! 
You don't know how much a ton is, do you? But 
do you know what your father wrote to me ? " 

" No, I don't ; but I 'm not a-going to ask no- 
body to read their letters, 'cause it 's umpolite." 

" I '11 read it without being asked," said the 
minister : 

" Rev. and Dear Sir : My daughter, the bearer of 
this note, I wish to place under your pastoral care, as 
I think she is now old enough to attend church. I am 
not ambitious that she should become one of your offi- 
cial members (though it seems she has rather pushed 
herself forward in that direction), but shall be satisfied 
to have her act in a private capacity. Will you take 
her under your charge ? 

" Inclosed is a check for one hundred dollars, which 
please consider as coming from her, and as an addition 
to the salary assigned you for the present year. I shall 
expect her, in addition, to do her part toward your church 



collections during the short time that she will probably 
remain in your village. 

• : Wishing you, my dear brother, abundant success in 
the great work in which you are engaged, I •am yours 
in Christian fellowship, James S. Brant." 

'•This means a hundred dollars," said the min- 
ister, taking up a slip of paper. " And it means says so." 

" If you 've done your errand we 'd better be 
a-going," spoke up Susan. 

The minister rose and took Mattie's hand. " I 
am going to ask Mrs. Bell if she won't give me 
some of her posies to make you a nosegay," he 
said. "You are my little girl now, you know. 
You must come and hear me preach, — your father 


that my boy can stay at college. I wrote a letter 
to him this morning saying that he would have to 
come home. It was hard work, writing that letter. 
Now, I can burn it, and write another ! " 

" Oh ! I am glad your little boy can go to col- 
lege-school some more ! " exclaimed Mattie. 

And, indeed, she was glad, for the minister's 
little boy had been in her thoughts very often. 

"Oh, yes; I s'pose I must," said Mattie, con- 

Mattie carried home a large bouquet of sweet- 
smelling, old-fashioned flowers. She kept it in 
water many days, and when she looked at it she 
was very happy, thinking of her papa, who had 
made "the minister with the sorry mouth" glad, 
and of the minister's little boy at college-school. 



By John H. Jewett. 

Part I. 

birthday was in 
June, and June, 
the monthof roses, 
was coming in a 
few weeks. 

Then the Bun- 
nies were to have 
a picnic, if all 
were well and the 
weather was fine. 
They were fond 
of picnics and 
liked to have them 
a long way off from 

Now there were 
plenty of green 
fields and pleasant 
groves near by Runwild Terrace, but the Bunnies 
thought the best part of a picnic was the going 
away from a noisy neighborhood, in search of new 
places to ramble in for the day, and the having 
dinner out-of-doors. 

They were always glad to come home again when 
the day's fun was over, but they really loved the 
quiet and strangeness of the woods and fields, and 
knew how pleasant it was to find some wild place, 
where they could play that all the world was their 
own, to be good and happy in for a little while, all 
by themselves. 

There never seemed to be any room in such 
places for naughty thoughts or actions, and they 
always came home so full of fresh air and sunshine 
that the good feeling would last for several days, in 
spite of the little trials and tempers which might 
come peeping around the corners of their work or 
play at home. 

For a long time after those sad and anxious days 
when Cuddledown was missing, the Bunnies felt 
rather timid about going very far away from the 
village alone. 

They used to talk about the strange creatures, 
with smooth, white faces, who carried Cuddledown 

off to the settlement where Cousin Jack had found 
her, and they often wondered if they should ever 
meet them in the fields when berrying or having 
a picnic. 

Bunnyboy was the captain of a soldier company, 
made up of a dozen or more of his playmates, and 
Cousin Jack called them his "Awkward Squad"; 
but they looked very grand in their blue flannel uni- 
forms, bright crimson sashes and gilt buttons, and 
they felt and talked almost as grand as they looked. 

Sometimes they talked rather boastfully about 
what they would do, when they were grown up and 
had real guns instead of wooden ones, if the strangers 
ever came to molest them at the Terrace. 

One day when Bunnyboy and his soldiers were 
talking very bravely about this matter, the Deacon 
asked Bunnyboy if they had ever practiced " Right- 
about face, Double-quick, March ! " 

Bunnyboy saw the twinkle in his father's eyes, 
and replied : " Oh, you think we would run at the 
first sight of the smooth-faces, do you ? " 

The Deacon smiled and said he hoped not, but 
the bravest soldiers were usually modest as well as 
brave, and perhaps Cousin Jack would tell them a 
story some time about two dogs he once heard of, 
whose names were "Brag" and "Holdfast." 

Cousin Jack answered him by saying: "The 
dog story is all right so far as it goes, but my ad- 
vice to them is to keep right on thinking brave 
thoughts, for such thoughts have the right spirit, 
and are good company for old or young." 

" It would hardly pay," said he, " to grow up 
at all, if we did not love our homes and country 
enough to be willing to defend them with our lives, 
if necessary." 

Browny, who carried the flag, waved his staff and 
said, " Just you wait until we are bigger and have 
swords and guns, and see if we do not teach the 
smooth-faces a lesson." 

" Browny," said Cousin Jack, "I hope by that 
time guns will be out of fashion, for real courage 
does not depend so much on swords and guns as 
some folks imagine." 

"Perhaps," said he, "the smooth-faces are not 
so bad as they seem to us, and they may have 
meant no wrong by taking Cuddledown with them 



to the settlement. They might have left her to 
starve and perish alone, and then we should have 
lost her altogether." 

" A brave spirit and a revengeful spirit," he con- 
tinued, "are two very different things, and you 
should be careful, Browny, not to get them mixed. 
However, it is now time for you all to go on with 
your drilling." 

Turning to the company, Cousin Jack looked 

morning the near neighbors knew that something 
was to happen, by the noise the Bunnies were 

They were all up with the sun, and Cuddledown 
had to be kissed six times by each member of the 
family, and each had a pretty card or gift for her 

After breakfast, when Gaffer brought the family 
carriage to the door, they were in such a hurry to 

S^ 5 



them over very carefully and said, " Keep your 
shoulders straight, — eyes to the front, — keep step 
to the music and — obey your commander ! " 

" Attention ! company, forward, March ! " 
shouted Bunnyboy, and oft' they tramped, looking 
so brave and manly that even the Deacon clapped 
his hands and cried, " Bravo ! they are a plucky 
lot. that is a fact, and I am proud of them." 

So many months had passed, during which 
nothing had been seen or heard of the strangers, 
that the Bunnies began to feel less timid, and to 
wish they might see some of the places Cousin 
Jack and Cuddledown had passed on their journey. 

Cousin Jack told them it would be a pleasant 
drive, and if the Deacon would let them take the 
horse and carriage for the picnic party, they would 
go that way when the time came. 

Even a few weeks seemed a long time to wait, 
but at last the day came, and very early one bright 

Vol. XVI.— 45. 

be off, they could scarcely wait for Mother 
Bunny to pack the lunch-basket and get 
all the things ready for a long day away 
from home. 

When all were stowed away in the car- 
riage, and the four Bunnies were seated, 
Cousin Jack took the reins, while Browny shouted 
"All aboard ! " and with a rousing " Good-bye ! " 
to the father and mother, off they started, as merry 
as larks in a meadow. 

The fields and lanes were all so lovely they could 
not help stopping on the way to pick a handful of 
the golden buttercups and fragrant lilacs, while all 
around them in the trees and hedges the birds were 
filling the air with melody, and seemed to be invit- 
ing everybody to come out and enjoy the fine 

After a pleasant drive of more than two hours, 
they came to the "two roads," and found the very 
spot where Cousin Jack had slept the first night of 
his journey, and from which he first saw the lights 
in the settlement. 

They could just see, from the top of a hill near 
by, the white church-spires glistening in the sun, 
but they did not wish to goanv nearer. 





The Bunnies were not really afraid, for Cousin 
Jack was with them, but they were glad when he 
said they would drive back by the other road and 
have their picnic nearer home. 

On the way, about noon-time, they came to a 
place where there was a busy little brook, and a 
shining pond half covered with lily-pads, and an 
open pasture with many large, flat stones scattered 
about in the short grass, just right for resting-places. 

Cousin Jack said they could not find a better 
place, for close by on a little knoll was a grove of 
pine-trees, near enough together to make it shady 
and cool, and not too thick for playing hide-and- 

Under the trees the ground was covered with a 
soft clean mat of last year's dry pine-needles, mak- 
ing the nicest kind of a couch to lie upon and 
watch the stray sunbeams peeping through the 
branches overhead. 

The lunch-baskets were hung on a low limb of a 
pine-tree, so that the busy little ants and other 
creeping things need not be tempted to meddle with 
the Bunnies' dinner, and so it might be out of reach 
of any stray dog that might be roving about. 

When Cousin Jack had tied the horse in a safe 
place, and given him a feed of oats in a nose-bag, 
the Bunnies ran off to play, and had great fun 
racing about the fields, looking for turtles on the 
edges of the pond, or making tiny boats of birch- 
bark, on which they wrote pleasant messages to 
send down the brooks to any one who might chance 
to find them lodged or floating on the stream 

While they were playing by the pond, they heard 
a strange croaking noise, and found that it came 
from two large green frogs, half hidden in the drift- 
wood lodged against some overhanging bushes on 
the bank. 

Little Cuddledown said she thought the frogs 
must be learning to talk, and asked what they 
were trying to say. Just for fun, Bunnyboy told her 
it sounded as if one of them was saying : 

" Get the lunch ! Get the lunch ! 

Eat it up ! eat it up ! '' 

and the other frog answered : 

"Methejug! Me the jug! 
Ker chug ! " 

This made them all feel hungry, and Cuddledown 
thought it was time to be going back to the tree, 
before the frogs found the baskets with the sand- 
wiches and cakes and the jug of milk the mother 
had packed up so carefully for their dinner. 

So they all ran back to the grove and helped 
Cousin Jack to spread out the dinner on the top of 
a large flat rock, where they could all sit around as 

if at a table, and make it seem like having a real 
home dinner in the open air. 

After dinner they packed up the dishes in the 
basket, and all the broken bits and crumbs that 
were left over were scattered about on the ground, 
so that the little bugs might have a picnic too, all 
by themselves, under the leaves and grass. 

Cousin Jack thought Cuddledown had played so 
hard that she must be tired and sleepy, and spread- 
ing a lap-robe under the trees they lay down to take 
a nap, while the others wandered away in search of 
fresh flowers to take home in the baskets. 

By and by, when they came back to the grove, 
Bunnyboy had an armful of fragrant wild azaleas 
and hawthorn blossoms ; Pinkeyes had a huge 
bouquet of buttercups and pretty grasses, and 
Browny a lovely bunch of delicate blue violets. 
These he had wrapped in large, wet leaves to keep 
the tender blossoms from losing all their dainty 
freshness before he could give them to his mother. 

It was now time to think about driving back to 
the village, and presently, when the baskets, and 
flowers, and Bunnies were all snugly stowed away 
in the carriage again, they started off for home, 
waving good-bye with their handkerchiefs to the 
pleasant grove, while the nodding tree-tops and 
swaying branches answered the salute in their own 
graceful way. 

As they drew near the outskirts of the village, 
and were passing through a shady lane, they heard 
voices in the distance, which seemed to come from 
behind the hill at the right of the road. 

The voices soon changed to cries for help, and 
tying the horse by the roadside they hurried to the 
top of the hill, where a strange and startling sight 
was before them. 

Part II. 

Near the foot of the hill was a pine grove and 
a gently sloping field, very much like the one the 
Bunnies had left, and beyond was a low marsh, or 
peat meadow, overgrown with low bushes and tufts 
of rank grasses. 

Huddled together near the edge of the marsh 
was a group of frightened little ones, evidently 
another picnic-party, but in trouble. 

Out in the marsh someone was clinging to the 
bushes, waving her hand and calling for help, 
while a few feet beyond they could see a small 
object, which looked like the head and shoulders 
of a child, slowly sinking into the bog. 

Cousin Jack knew at a glance what had hap- 
pened, and telling Bunnyboy and Browny to fol- 
low him, and Pinkeyes to look after the group 
below, he led the way, as fast as he could run, to 
the nearest rail-fence. 

Loosening the rails, he told the Bunnies to drag 



them along one at a time, and then hurried as fast 
as his crutches would carry him to the edge of the 

The Bunnies were close behind him with a stout 
rail, and laying down his crutches he crept out as 
far as he could safely go, dragging the rail after 
him, until he was within a few feet of the sinking 

Then he pushed the rail over the yielding and 
treacherous quagmire to the little fellow and told 
him to put his arms over it, hang on, and stop 

The Bunnies soon had two more rails within 
reach, and these Cousin Jack pushed alongside the 
other, making a kind of wooden bridge, or path, 
over which he crawled, and at last by main strength 

The first thing to do was to wash off some of the 
wet black mud at the brook, and wrap up the shiv- 
ering Tumblekins in shawls and blankets, to keep 
him from taking cold. 

Miss Fox's feet were wet and covered with mud, 
but she was so busy looking after the others that 
she did not mind that; and soon, with the help of 
the Bunnies, the baskets and wraps were picked up 
and they all set out for home. 

It was not very far to the village, but the Bunnies 
said they would walk and let some of the tired little 
ones ride in the carriage. 

Cousin Jack agreed to this plan and loaded both 
seats full of the smallest orphans, and with Cuddle- 
down by his side, drove off at the head of the pro- 
cession, while the rest trudged on behind. 



pulled the half-buried child out of the soft, wet 

In a few minutes, both had safely crept back over 
the rails to the solid ground. 

Meanwhile, the grown person who was cling- 
ing to the bushes, had succeeded in pulling her 
feet out of the mire by lying down, and, imitating 
Cousin Jack's example, had crept out of the marsh 
and joined Pinkeyes and Cuddledown in quieting 
the little ones, who were crying in their fright and 

A few words explained it all. They were a party 
of little orphan Bears, Coons, Woodchucks, 'Pos- 
sums, Squirrels, and Rabbits from the Orphans' 
Home in the village, and had come out for a pic- 
nic with Miss Fox, one of the matrons of the 

Toddle Tumblekins Coon, the little fellow Cousin 
Jack had saved from being buried alive in the bog, 
had strayed away in search of flowers and become 
helplessly mired in one of the soft spots in the 

In going to his rescue, the matron had also been 
caught in a bog-hole, and but for the timely help 
of Cousin Jack and the Bunnies, both might have 
lost their lives. 

When they reached the Orphanage the Bunnies 
said good-bye to their new friends and were invited 
by Miss Fox to come and see the children at home, 
some day, and meet the other matrons, who would 
be glad to thank them for all their kindness. 

It was nearly dusk before the Bunnies reached 
home, and they were all so eager to tell about the 
day's doings and the strange accident in the marsh 
that they all tried to talk at once. 

Mother Bunny said they must be hungry after 
such a long day, and so much excitement, but 
after supper she would be glad to hear all about it 
and enjoy the picnic at second hand. 

The Deacon said he would join in the same 
request, if they would take turns in talking, instead 
of turning the tea-table into a second Babel, and 
Cousin Jack said something which sounded like a 
subdued "Amen." 

By the time they had finished supper, however. 
Cousin Jack and Bunnyboy had told the general 
story of the day, in answer to the Deacon's ques- 
tions, and as they gathered about the library-table 
for the evening, each of the other Bunnies had 
something to tell of the day's happenings, and 
of what the orphans had said to them on the 
way home. 




Cuddledown told how the little Squirrel orphan, 
who sat next to her on the front seat with Cousin 
Jack, had said she had a dolly with real hair and 
asked whether Cuddledown had ever seen one. 

"I almost laughed," said Cuddledown, "and 
was going to tell her I had half a dozen dollies at 
home, but I did not. I only told her I had a 

dolly with real hair, too, and that my dolly's name 
was Catharine." 

" Why did you not tell her you had more dolls?" 
asked Cousin Jack. 

"Because — because I thought perhaps she had 
only one, and I did n't wish to make her feel 
unhappy," said Cuddledown. 

Mother Bunny drew Cuddledown close to her 
side and said, " That was a good reason, dear, and 
I am glad my little daughter is growing up to be 
kind and thoughtful of others." 

Then the Deacon said, "Next," and Pinkeyes 
told them all about the pleasant talk she had with 
two little sister Coons who walked with her. 

They told her how they lived at the Home, about 
their lessons and singing in the morning, learning 
to sew and playing games in the large hall in 
the afternoon, or taking pleasant walks with the 
"Aunties," as they called the kind matrons who 
took care of them. 

They both told her they liked "Visitors' day" 
the best of all in the week, for then the kind young 
ladies came and told them stories, or read about 
the pretty pictures in books they brought. 

When Pinkeyes finished her story she said to 
Mother Bunny, " When I am old enough I shall ask 

you to let me have an afternoon out, just as the cook 
has for her own, every week, and then I will be 
one of the visitors. " 

" I know lots of stories," said Pinkeyes, " and I 
should like to help those little orphans to forget 
that they have no fathers and mothers, and no 
homes of their own, like ours." 

The Deacon smiled as he said, " That 
will all come about in good time, my dear, 
I am sure, for I have had hard work to keep 
your mother away from the Orphanage, long 
enough to let the children there have a quiet 
season of the measles, between her visits." 

Cousin Jack looked at the Deacon as he 
said, " Kindness seems to be a family trait 
on the mother's side, in this household, and 
I hope we may all be able to bear up a little 
longer under our part of the burden " ; and 
then, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, he 
turned and said, " Your turn now, Brovvny." 
Browny began by saying he had great fun 
racing with a young 'Possum who said his 
other name was "Oliver." 

Cousin Jack said that Oliver was probably 
a favorite name in that family, and perhaps 
that was the reason it was usually written 
" O-possum." 

The Deacon pretended to groan and 

said, " Oh ! please give Browny a chance 

to tell his story, and finish up this picnic 

before morning, for I am getting sleepy." 

Then Browny said the little fellow was about 

his size, and wore a sailor-suit, just like the pretty 

one he had worn the summer before. 

A funny thing about the jacket was that it had 
on the right shoulder the same kind of a three- 
cornered mended place that his own had, and he 
wondered if Oliver had tumbled out of a cherry- 
tree, as he himself did when he tore his jacket. 

Then he asked his mother what had become of 
his sailor-suit. 

The Deacon looked over to Mother Bunny and 
slyly said he was beginning to understand why it 
was that a suit of clothes never lasted more than 
one season in that family, and why their children 
never had anything fit to wear left over from last 

Mother Bunny blushed a little as she replied: 
"Our children outgrow some of their clothing, 
Father, and it seems a pity not to have it doing 
somebody some good. You knew very well," said 
she, " when we sent the bundle last spring, even 
if you did not know all that was inside." 

Cousin Jack remarked that he saw a load of 
wood going over there about that time, and if his 
memory was not at fault the Deacon was driving 
and using the bundle of clothing for a seat. 



Browny asked if it really was his suit that Oliver 
was wearing, and his mother said it probably 
was the same one, for she sent it in the bundle 
with the other things, although she was almost 
ashamed to do so, because the mended place showed 
so plainly. 

Cousin Jack smiled at Browny and said, " You 
ought to be thankful you have such a kind mother 
to help to hide the scars left by your heedlessness, 
but how about the other little chap who did not fall 
out of a tree, but has to wear your patches for you ? " 

Browny did not answer, for he remembered how- 
it happened. He had nearly ruined a young 
cherry-tree, besides tearing his jacket, by trying 
to get the fruit without waiting for a ladder as he 
had been told to do. Turning again to the Dea- 
con, Cousin Jack said, " It seems to me you might 
make a good Sunday-school talk on the subject of 
second-hand clothes. I have seen," he continued, 
" large families where the outgrown garments 
were handed down from older to younger until 
the patches and stains left for the last one to wear 
would have ruined the reputation, if not the dispo- 
sition, of a born angel." 

The Deacon said he would think about it, for it 
was rather unfair to the orphans to label them 
with the ink-stains and patches, and other signs 
of untidiness or carelessness, which really belonged 
to the Bunnies themselves. 

" Well, well," said Cousin Jack, " perhaps when 
you get the subject well warmed-over for the Sun- 
day-school children, you can season it with a few 
remarks to the grown folks, who may be a little 

careless in handing down their second-hand habits 
of fault-finding, ill temper, and other failings, for 
their children to wear and be blamed for all their 

The Deacon coughed, and as he saw Bunnyboy 
trying to hide a yawn with his hand, he asked him 
what he was trying to say. 

Bunnyboy replied that he was not saying any- 
thing, but was trying to keep awake by thinking 
about how Tumblekins looked before they washed 
him in the brook. 

" From his shoulders to his heels," said he, 
" Tumblekins was plastered with black mud so 
thick that you could not see whether his clothing 
was patched or whole." 

" I felt sorry for him," continued Bunnyboy, 
" but he looked so comical I could not help 

Browny said he hoped the little fellow had an- 
other of his suits to put on at the Home, and he 
guessed Tumblekins would n't mind wearing a 
patch or two, rather than to be sent to bed until 
the soiled suit was washed and dried. 

Browny's remark reminded Mother Bunny that 
it was getting late, and long past the Bunnies' 
bedtime, and, as Cuddledown had been fast asleep 
in her arms for half an hour, she said they ought 
not to sit up any longer. 

So they all said " Good-night," and went to 
bed, tired but happy, and thankful, too, that they 
had so happy and so comfortable a home, all their 
own, with Father and Mother and Cousin Jack to 
share it with them. 

(To be continued.) 



By Elizabeth F. Parker. 

The dog shown in the picture on this page is Tiger. It looks just like 
V, him, except that he does not always look so sleepy; but he had 
4*s s been hard at work when I asked him to sit for his picture. 

Tiger lives on an orange plantation near the St. John's River 
in Florida, and when night comes he watches the place until 
morning, and drives off the thieves who sometimes come to 
steal the fruit. 

When it is daylight again, Tiger goes down among the 
tall, big-leaved banana plants and drives away the 


moccasin snakes that hide there where it is 



shady and damp and cool. The men who 
work among the bananas are A 
afraid of these poisonous 
snakes, but Tiger is not. 
In fact, Tiger likes to hunt 
snakes. During the day he trots off between 
his naps to see that no snakes have crawled 
in among the banana plants ; and when peo- 
ple come to see his master, and they begin 
to talk about snakes, Tiger is awake in an 
instant. Then his master will say, " Tiger 
knows where the snakes are ; he would 
like to show you one, now " ; and, if the 

visitors will only go with him, he will lead them down to the river, push in 
among the old planks, and then bark, as much as to say, "There they are." 
And there they will be, sure enough, swimming away into the river. 

Perhaps after this, when you eat your Florida oranges or bananas, you 
will think of brave Tiger 

who watches SS^a^gs^.. stec his master's 

fully ; for he 

fruit so care- 
perhaps took 
very oranges 
so that you 
sweet fruits 

— care of those 
and bananas 
might have 
to eat. 

it i\v\ !l i 1 I . ' 'h Ml 



By Lieut. W. R. Hamilton-, U. S. A. 

Rockets are made for three purposes : for signaling ; 
for decorations or celebrations, or as projectiles in war. 
For signals, the charge consists of 12 parts of niter, 2 of 
sulphur, and 3 of charcoal. The ornamental, or decora- 
tive, rocket is the one we see used on the Fourth of July, 
and the composition of which it is made comprises 122 
parts of mealed or finely pulverized powder, So of niter, 
40 of sulphur, and 40 of cast-iron filings. 

The principal parts of the rocket as shown in the dia- 
gram are : a, the case, made by rolling stout paper, covered 
on one side with paste, around awooden form, at the same 
time applying considerable pressure. The end is then 
"choked," or brought tightly together, with twine. The 
paper case thus made is next placed in a copper mold, so 

!Ji33Bn £, 


that a conical copper spindle will j)ass up through the 
choke, and the composition, b, is then poured in and 
packed by blows of a mallet on a copper drift or packing- 
tool made to fit over the spindle. The top of the case is 
now closed with a layer of moist plaster-of-paris one inch 
thick, perforated with a small hole for the passage of the 
flame to the upper part, or " pot " — c. The pot is formed 
of another paper cylinder slipped over and pasted to the 
top of the case and surmounted by a paper cone filled with 
tow. The " decorations " are placed in the pot and arc 
scattered through the air when the flame, having passed 
through the aperture of the plaster, reaches a small charge 
of mealed powder, d, placed in the pot. The stick is a 
piece of pine wood, tapering, and about nine times the 
length of the rocket. It is to guide the rocket in its flight. 
The decorations in the pot may be " stars," " serpents," 

' marrons. 

; gold-rain," and so on. "Marrons' 

small paper shells filled with grained powder and pinned 
with quick-match. " Serpents," are small cases about y z 
inch in diameter in which is a composition of 3 parts 
niter, 3 sulphur, 16 mealed powder, y z charcoal. This 
composition is driven in the case, the top of which is 
closed by plaster-of-paris, having a small aperture through 
which passes a piece of quick-match. 

A "Tourbillon " is a rocket that moves upward with 
a spiral motion. This motion is produced by six holes, 
two lateral ones (one on each side) and four underneath. 
It is steadied by two wings formed by attaching pieces 
of hoop-iron to the middle of the case and at right angles 
to it. Rain of fire, or gold fire, is cast-iron filings which 
become red-hot in the flame of the explosion, and, on 
dropping through the air, gleam accordingly. Looking 
at the plan of the rocket, we find at the rear end of the 
case a hollow part. This is where the copper spindle has 
passed through the choke. It is filled with quick-match, 
and a paper cap is placed over all. Now, when the match 
is lighted it sets fire to the composition, and the gas gen- 
erated by the burning of the latter must escape. In doing 
so, it strikes against the air, which not giving way fast 
enough causes the expanding body of gas to push the rocket 
forward also. Of course, it is easy to see that the more 
the composition burns the larger the burning surface be- 
comes, and therefore there is constantly a greater amount 
of gas generated each instant. So the rocket, having be- 
gun to move comparatively slowly, rapidly increases its 
rate of speed till the composition is nearly all burned out. 
Then the flame, passing through the aperture in the 
plaster, reaches the mealed powder in the pot, bursts it, 
setting fire at the same time to all the decorations, which 
are scattered through the air in beautiful colors. 

By Thos. W. Chittenden. 

Although animals were not unfrequently summoned 
in judicial proceedings, in days gone by, it is not now a 
common thing for animals to be formally summoned by 
a court of justice, either to stand trial themselves or to 
give evidence against or in behalf of litigants. Never- 
theless, such an instance has just occurred in this coun- 
try, and the testimony of a fine Maltese cat summarily 
decided a case that had puzzled judge and jury for a 

The circumstances of this novel occurrence were as 
follows : Two men living in a Western city each owned 
a young Newfoundland dog, and the two animals resem- 
bled each other so strongly in all points that it was not 
possible for even the respective owners to distinguish 



them. By some means one of the dogs was lost, and 
his owner seeing, as he supposed, his missing pet in the 
street one day, about a month after the loss, naturally 
took possession of him, and led him home. We will 
call this dog " Major " to distinguish him. The proprie- 
tor of Major objected strongly to this proceeding, and 
laid claim to the animal, his title being promptly dis- 
puted by the first, who insisted that the dog belonged to 
him, and added that, as " possession was nine points of 
the law," he proposed to keep him, let the other do what 
he might. Argument and persuasion failing, suit was 
brought to recover Major, and the case was regularly 
brought into court and came to trial about Christmas 
time, before a judge and a jury. 

Witnesses on both sides testified positively that it was 
Major, and that it was not Major — the animal himself, 
meanwhile, going freely to either of his claimants, and 
leaving one readily at the call of the other, seeming 
quite indifferent as to which one might finally secure 
him. A whole week was taken up with conflicting testi- 
mony, and even then neither judge nor jury were the 
wiser, or better prepared to render a true decision con- 
cerning the case. 

At this point a woman living in the same house with 
Major's owner declared that her cat could settle the 
question as to which dog it was, since the cat and Major 
were on terms of great friendship, eating and playing 
together, and sleeping on the same rug, while the cat 
was the sworn foe of all other canines, and had worsted 
many in fair fight. 

Here was a solution by which all parties to the con- 
troversy were willing to abide, and a formal writ was ac- 
cordingly issued in the name of the people of the State 
commanding " all and singular, the owner or owners of 
a certain Maltese cat to produce the living body of the 
said animal before the Hon. So-and-so, a justice duly 
and legally commissioned by the people of the common- 
wealth aforesaid," at a given time and place duly speci- 
fied in the writ, and ' : thereof to fail not at their own 
proper peril." 

At the time appointed the momentous cat was duly 
produced before the honorable court, Major and his 
claimant being on hand, as well as a large assembly at- 
tracted by the novelty of the proceeding. The record 
does not state whether Puss was duly sworn to tell " the 
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth," nor 
whether his owner was required to act as proxy for him 
in this respect. 

However this may have been, he proceeded to vindi- 
cate his mistress's assertions, first with regard to his 
fighting qualities, for, on the introduction of some strange 
animals of the canine species, brought by direction of the 
dignified court, he dilated his tail to most majestic pro- 
portions, arched his back in monumental style, and gave 
battle, to the satisfaction of the spectators, if not to that 
of his adversaries, clearing the room in fine style, and in 
an exceedingly brief space of time. Next, Major was 
brought in, whereupon Pussy's warlike mood and de- 
meanor w r ere speedily changed to demonstrations of 
acquaintance and good-fellowship, the animals recogniz- 

ing each other to the satisfaction of all concerned, and 
immediately terminating by this conclusive evidence a 
suit which, except for the shrewd thought of a woman, 
might have dragged on interminably and led to rancor 
and strife. 


A well-known gentleman of Savannah tells this 
story: " I notice in this morning's paper an interesting 
account of how a dog was made to testify in a case in 
which he was claimed by a soldier who had at one time 
been in the English Army in India. According to the 
account, the soldier said that if the dog did not under- 
stand the Hindustani language he would not claim him. 
but if he did he would consider the dog belonged to 
him. When the case was called in court, the soldier said 
something in the Hindu tongue, and the dog imme- 
diately recognized him, and, running through the crowd, 
jumped into the witness-box and fawned on the soldier. " 

Another said that this was a case similar to one 
which occurred in Savannah many years ago, before 
steamships went to that port. A gentleman owned a 
very valuable mocking bird, of which he thought a good 
deal. The bird was stolen. The gentleman was very 
much put out over it, and hunted everywhere to recover 
it. He heard of a visitor from the North who had pur- 
chased a mocking-bird and was about to leave the port 
on a sailing vessel. The gentleman concluded that he 
would go down to the vessel to see if the bird was not 
his. Upon reaching the vessel, sure enough, he found a 
man with a mocking-bird which he at once recognized 
as the one which he had lost. He told the visitor that 
the bird belonged to him, and the visitor asked how he 
could recognize the bird from any other, and was unwill- 
ing to give it up until some evidence had been given of 

The Savannahian finally said that he would make com- 
plaint before a magistrate, and if he did not prove it by 
the bird itself, he would not make any further claim. So 
together they went before Magistrate Railford, who 
had his office at the time in a little building where the 
Custom-house now stands. The complaint was made, and 
the claimant of the bird said that he would prove that 
the mocking-bird was his, by the bird itself. The magis- 
trate was somewhat surprised, and asked : " How are 
you going to do that ? " 

The gentleman replied that he would whistle an air, 
and if the bird took it up and followed him, it ought to 
be sufficient evidence of ownership. If the bird did not 
follow him, then he would make no further claim to it. 

He whistled the tune " St. Patrick's Day in the Morn- 
ing," and the bird joined in and whistled it through 
without interruption. The magistrate said : " I am 
satisfied the bird is yours. I don't wish any further 
evidence of the fact of ownership." The visitor was 
charmed and wanted the bird badly, and offered $100 for 
it, but the owner refused to part with it for any amount. — 
Savannah News. 


By Thomas W. Chittenden. 



LOOKING through the advertising pages of St. 
NICHOLAS, as I suppose a majority of its readers 
ordinarily do, I noticed one announcement that 
once would have been very attractive to me. It 
is n't necessary to tell how long ago, and, indeed, 
I must confess that the notice yet had its interest 
for me, in spite of my gray hairs. I will confess 
a secret : I am still fond of blowing bubbles, and 
that was what the advertisement was about. 

As I read, I wondered whether you younger 
readers have thought much about soap-bubbles, 
and whether many among you know how won- 
derful they are, and how profound philosophers 
have considered them worthy of careful study, and 
how many of the remarkable facts about them are 
even yet not fully nor satisfactorily explained. How- 
ever this may be, I think it likely that many will 
be glad to know how to blow a bubble bigger than 
their own heads, or rather than any single head is 

likely to be under normal circumstances. As evi- 
dence that this can be done, here is a picture which 
shows just such a bubble, together with the small 
boy who did the blowing. A measurement will 
show that the bubble is considerably larger than 
the boy's head, which is quite as big as that of the 
majority of boys of his age. 

With care in following out the directions, I think 
that no one need fail to blow a bubble quite as 
large as that shown in the picture ; I have often 
blown larger, but, as already suggested, I have had 
much practice. Still, my little friend succeeded 
very well at his first attempt, and there is no reason 
why others may not do as well. I can promise 
them that they will find a number of things about 
a soap-bubble worthy of attention, whatever its 
size. Good soap is necessary. I have found the 
oldest specimens of white Castile or Marseilles 
soap the best. Ordinary soaps contain too much 



water, as usually sold, and I have not had time to 
ascertain what modifications are necessary to make 
their use practicable. Next to white Castile, the 
mottled Castile gives the best results. The soap 
being obtained, a friendly druggist must carefully 
weigh out sixty grains (for exactness in proportions 
is needful) for each ounce of water. That is, one 
drachm (according to the Apothecary's Weight of 
the old arithmetics), and when the weighing is done 
and the obliging druggist thanked for kindness, 
the rest is plain sailing. A bottle with a sound 
cork is the next requirement. It must be large 
enough to hold three or four times the quantity 
of solution you wish to make. Do not prepare too 
much at one time ; two ounces of soap solution 
will be a good quantity, and for this a six or eight 
ounce bottle will be about the right thing. The 
bottle must be well cleaned and then well rinsed 
out with soft water — which, by the way, should 
be used for all the operations. All being ready, 
the soap is cut into fragments small enough to 
enter the bottle. Measure an ounce of water for 
each drachm of soap; this can be done with a tea- 
spoon, eight spoonfuls making an ounce. Having 
poured the water and put the soap into the bottle, 
we have now to await perfect solution, which will 

happen in the course of two or three hours, if the 
bottle be put in a moderately warm place. Then 
add glycerine to the soap solution, the quantity 
varying with our ambition. I have found that one- 
half the volume of the solution gives excellent 
results ; that is to say, to each ounce of water add 
one-half ounce of glycerine, measuring the quanti- 
ties instead of weighing them, in both cases. The 
bottle is now to be tightly corked and well shaken ; 
then set aside for two or three hours more, and 
well shaken again. These alternate periods of rest 
and agitation should continue for a whole day. 
Finally, let the bottle stand undisturbed and 
tightly corked for twenty-four hours. Bubbles 
of great size and beauty may be blown with 
this solution. 

A thin glass pipe will give better results than a 
clay-pipe, but is by no means essential ; if a clay- 
pipe be used, it should have as long a stem as 
possible. After the pipe has been used for a time 
it will work much better than at first; indeed, it is 
possible that the experimenter may pronounce the 
whole a failure unless he reserves his opinion until 
the pipe gets into good working order, a condition 
depending on causes that I have not yet satisfac- 
torily learned. 


Fill the pipe ! 

Gently blow ; 
Now you '11 see 

The bubbles grow ! 
Strong at first, 

Then they burst, 
Then they go to 

Nothing, Oh ! 

_- p ^^S^ "^ 



Contributors are respectfully informed that, between the ist of June and the 15th of September, manuscripts can not conveniently be 

examined at the office of St. Nicholas. Consequently, those who desire to favor the magazine with contributions 

will please postpone sending their MSS. until after the last-named date. 


Dear St. Nicholas: I took you for two or three 
years, and then went away. This is my first letter, and 
I 'most always read the letters in the " Letter-box," but 
have never had the pleasure of writing. I had a don- 
key, but he died; he was very cunning; he would not 
drink out of a pail ; he would cry for water ; we would 
give him a pail of water, and he would smell it, and then 
push it over ; he would drink only out of the hose. I 
remain, yours truly, May E — 

Cooper's Plains, Brisbane, Australia. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl only nine 
years old. I live in Australia. 

We have taken you for three years. I liked the little 
" Brownies " and the Pygmies very much, and all the 
pretty pieces of poetry you sent us. 

I live eight miles from Brisbane. I go to school in the 
train, and I have a season ticket. I have three sisters and 
one brother, and the youngest is a dear little girlie. She 
is two years old ; she always has rosy cheeks. 

We have a little Shetland pony which we ride some- 
times. My brother is younger than I am, and he rode 
it forty miles in one day. I have no more news to tell 
you now. From your little friend, 

Jessie Glen J ■ 

This letter from a little Southern girl is one of many, 
concerning Elsie Leslie Lyde, which have been received 
since the publication of the April St. Nicholas : 

Dear St. Nicholas : Elsie Leslie Lyde's picture 
in the April number, 1SS9, was perfectly lovely ! I 
looked at it and studied it for a long while. The expres- 
sion is so gentle and child-like. She looks like a sweet 
dear little girl ; and from what I have read of her, I 
think she would be a fair and true example for other 
children to follow. If we children could all be as simple, 
earnest, unaffected, and loving as Elsie is described to 
be, what a blissful and sweet little world the " child- 
world " would be ! Don't you think so, St. Nicholas? 
I have named my large French doll, with long, blight 
curly hair, Elsie Leslie Lyde. 

I am, your ever loving friend, 

" Heatherbell." 

Wilmington, N. C. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have been reading your stories 
about dogs, and it makes me wish to write and tell you 
about one which my father's family used to own. 

He was a little black-and-tan terrier, and his name was 
"Jip." He was very intelligent. My aunt and her 
friend would often dress him in their doll's clothes and 
then put him to bed, pretending that he was sick. He 
would take the medicine, and then open his mouth for 
something to take the taste out. Just when he looked 
very sick indeed, my father would rush through the 
room, calling out, " Rats, Jip, rats ! " and away Jip would 
go, scattering the bed-clothes and spoiling the girls' fun. 

Sometimes when he saw boys playing ball in the street 
he would run and catch the ball and scamper home with 
it. Then the boys would come and beg for the dog to 
play with them. My grandfather, who was a physi- 
cian, would sometimes take Tip with him on his rounds. 
Once, after leaving the dog at home, the doctor was much 
surprised to find Jip waiting for him at a patient's house 
where he had been the day before. On one occasion a 
little girl sitting by a fire said, " I wish I had some light- 
wood to put into this fire," and Jip immediately ran out 
of the room, and returned with a piece. He did not 
enjoy being washed, and when the children, to tease him, 
would say, " Come, Betty, and wash Jip," he would run 
and hide under the sofa. He loved to play hide-and- 
seek, and would stay shut up in the lower part of a wash- 
stand until the children were hidden. Sometimes they 
would catch him trying to peep ; then they would shame 
him, and he would hang his head and turn back, waiting 
patiently until they " whooped." 

Some years ago this dear old dog was stolen, and 
"the children" have never seen him again. I remain, 
Your little friend, A. L. B . 

Nice, France. 

Dear St. Nicholas: As I was in Rome at the close 
of the Jubilee-year, I saw the Pope, and I want to tell 
you about him. He was carried in his sedia, and moved 
his hand in blessing as he passed through. He is 
eighty years old and has white hair, and with his miter 
on looked very majestic. There was a great crowd, 
and although St. Peter's is perfectly immense, there was 
no room left after everybody got in. Everybody was 
obliged to wear black, with black Spanish lace scarfs 
draped on their heads. While we were in Rome, I saw 
the king, queen, and crown prince. 

My home is in Chicago, but we have been in this 
country since last Fourth of July. 

At present we are in Nice, a lovely winter resort on 
the Mediterranean, where they have been having a Battle 
of Flowers, and it is great fun. 

We have been in England, Belgium, Germany, Switz- 
erland, and Italy, and are now on our way through 
France, and expect to return home in May. 

Hoping this is not too long to print, I remain, sin- 
cerely yours, 

A Little American Girl. 

L. G. H. will find the article entitled " Nantucket 
Sinks " in St. Nicholas for August, 1SS7. 

New York. 
Dear St. Nicholas : This is the first time that we 
have written to you. We spent last summer abroad, and 
much of the time in Paris. While there we visited the 
Louvre, and were much interested in the various mum- 
mies, sphinxes, statues, etc. Our father, who is French, 
— though ive are stanch little Americans, — is a naval 

7 i8 


officer, and is away much of the time; but we expect 
him back soon, for which we are very happy. 

We have a large dog, an intelligent and beautiful grey- 
hound, named " Reha," whom we love very much. 
Your admiring readers, 

Victorine and Yolande. 

Troy, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I am a little girl, eleven years 
old. I have taken you only six months, but I enjoy you 
very much. I have taken music lessons for three years, 
and I play the " Housekeeping Songs " in your delight- 
ful magazine. I have also taken French for two years, 
and to-day I translated three " Mother Goose " songs, 
which papa said I might send to you. 

The first one is " Three Blind Mice " : 

" Trois souris aveugles ! 
Trois souris aveugles ! 
Vois-tu comme elles courent ! 
Vois-tu comme elles courent ! 
Elles couraient apres la femme du fermier, 
Qui leur coupe les queues avec un grand couteau, 
As-tu jamais vu une telle chose en ta vie 

Que trois souris aveugles ! " 

Next, " Baa, baa, Black Sheep " : 

" Baa, baa, mouton noir, 

N'as-tu pas de laine ? " 
" Oh ! si, monsieur, 

Trois bourses pleines ! 
Une pour le monsieur, 

Une pour la dame, 
Et un pour le garcon, 
Qui crie dans l'allee. " 

I am very sorry that I could not make the last word 
rhyme with the rest of the verse. My last one is " Mary, 
Mary, Quite Contrary " : 

" Marie, Marie, tout a fait contraire, 

Comment croit votre jardin ? " 
" Avec cloches argentees des coquilles ridees, 

Et des jolies filles tout en rangees." 

But I must not make my letter too long. I tried for 
the prize in your " King's Move Puzzle," but did not 
succeed. I wish you would publish another. 

Your admiring little friend, MAY M . 

Cincinnati, Ohio. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am but ten years of age, and 
I write to tell 3'ou how very much interested I am by 
" Daddy Jake, the Runaway," though I see it is to be 
in only one more number of the St. Nicholas. 

I live on Walnut Hills, a beautiful suburb of Cincin- 
nati. I have many nice books, but I can not find one 
story in them as nice as those in your magazine. I must 
now close. Your affectionate friend, 

Richard Y. R . 

Yates City', Illinois. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I am a little girl, eleven years 
old, and have four younger brothers. I live on a farm 
four miles from Yates City. My little brothers and I 
have a mile to walk to school. 

I like very much to read the " Letter-box. " My brothers 
all like the " Bunny Stories." This is the first letter I 
ever wrote you. Your little friend, 

Katharine N . 

Rondout, N. Y. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have taken your magazine 
for a number of years, and like it better every year. It 
has been given to me by my uncle as a Christmas pres- 
ent. Our city is situated on the Hudson River, and from 
our school we have a very fine view of this beautiful river, 
also of the Catskill and Shawangunk Mountains, in New 
York, and the Berkshire Mountains, in Massachusetts. 

In winter we have great sport in skating and ice-boat- 
ing. One day we raced with the trains on the Hudson 
River Railroad. We have also a large toboggan-slide, 
but it was not used this last w'inter on account of the 
mildness of the season. I am sixteen years old. 

Your reader, Mary' E. H . 

Los Angeles, Cal. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I am, of course, one of your 
many readers and admirers, and as I have never seen 
any letter from this place, I thought that I would write 
to you. I am thirteen years old, and have lived here 
nearly all my life : in fact, I have never been out of Cali- 
fornia, and have only seen snow once. I suppose that 
will seem very funny to some of your Eastern readers 
who see snow every winter. 

We usually have nice times here in the winter, going 
on picnics to the canons and gathering ferns and wild 
flowers after the first rain, which is usually in Decem- 
ber. "Juan and Juanita" is my favorite story, although 
I like them all, very much. 

Your sincere friend, Bertha C . 

Lebanon, Oregon. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have never seen a letter from 
any part of Oregon, so I thought I would write to you. 

I live on a farm, six miles from Lebanon, which is our 

Our farm is between two soda springs. It is about a 
mile and a half to each. The name of one is Sodaville, 
the other is Waterloo. At Waterloo the water bubbles 
up out of the rocks, and no matter how many drink out 
of it, the spring is never dry. We have to cross the river 
to it, and in the winter the river rises over the rocks so 
we can't get the water at all. Sodaville is a great sum- 
mer resort ; but I think Waterloo is the pleasanter place. 

I have lived in Oregon nearly ever since I can remem- 
ber, though I was born in Ohio. I used to live in Salem, 
the capital of Oregon. It is a beautiful city. 

I have taken you for five years, and like you more and 
more all the while. I have saved every number, and 
hope some time to have them bound. 

I think " Little Lord Fauntleroy " and " Juan and 
Juanita" are just splendid, but I think the best story you 
have published since I began taking vou is " His Qne 
Fault." My papa often says that is one of the best 
stories he ever read, and then he will laugh and say, 
" Poor boy, he did have a hard time getting the right 
horse ! " Your constant reader, Annie F. T . 

We thank the young friends whose names here follow 
for pleasant letters which we have received from them : 
V. A. C, L. G. H., Yalerie La Sautis, J. H. L., Iona 
T. L. C, McV., Sam Chapin, May Griffith, Harrv Lee 
Wiesner, Charlotte B. T., Anna Olive M., Ora M. Pierce, 
Ethel Ireland, Louie R., Frances McCahill, E. D. Black- 
well, Catherine C, Stella Stearns, Mary L. Robinson, 
Florence Griffith, Z. Z. Z., May Taylor, John Miller, 
Harry Geraldine W., Alice Smith, Addie and Erma M., 
Gardner Porter. 





2. Oleander. 3. Saf- 
Nightshade. S. Teasel. 

Octagons. I. x. Car. 2. Ruled. 3. Curator. 4. Alabama. 

5. Retaken. 6. Domes. 7. Ran. II. 1. Cad. 2. Pagod. 3. Cabi- 
net. 4. Agitate. 5. Donated. 6. Deter. 7. Ted. 

Connective Word-squares. Impassionate. I. Across: 1. Imp. 
2. Dee. 3. Ant. II. 1. Ass. 2. See. 3. Pat. III. 1. Ion, 
2. Day. 3. Are. IV. 1. Ate. 2. Won. 3. Led. 

June Roses, t. Musk. 2. Tea. 3. Swamp. 4. Dog. 5. Field. 

6. Moss. 7. China. 8. Cabbage. 9. Dwarf. 10. Indian. 
Pi. A glory apparels the corn ; 

The meadow-lark carols the morn ; 

The dew glistens over 

The grass and the clover: 
'T is June — and the summer is born ! 

The radiant hours adorn 
With clustering flowers the thorn ; 
The soft breezes hover 
The grass and the clover : 
'T is June — and the summer is born ! 
To our Puzzlers: Answers, to be acknowledged in the magazine, must be received not later than the 15th of each month, and 
should be addressed to St. Nicholas " Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth St., New York City. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the Aprtl Number were received, before April 15th, from Clara B. Orwig — A. L. W. L. — 
J. B. Swann — Paul Reese — K. G. S.— Bessie M. Allen — " Infantry "— Nellie L. Howes — A. H. R. and M. G. R.— O. D. O. 

Answers to Puzzles in the April Number were received, before April 15th, from Grace E. Mercer, 1 — Maude Lillian M., 1 — 
Carrie Holzman, 1 — Maude E. Palmer, 12 — Margaret Cassels, 1 — R. F. Spilsbury, 1 — A. H. G-, 2 — Edwin Lewis, 1 — Daisy L. 
Brown, 2 — Lillian A. Sturtevant, 1 — Mary L. Gerrish, 12 — Maud H. Levie, 1 — Grace Harris, 1 — Louise Ingham Adams, 11 — Lisa 
D. Bloodgood, 3 — " The Wise Five," 12 — Hettie S. Black, 1 — Marion Stickney, 2 — Fannie E. Hecht, 1 — Chester, 1 — R. A. P., 1 — 
" Sister May," 1 — Harry Sillcocks, 2 — I, L. Wilson, 1 — Jeannette How, 1 — " A Family Affair," 7 — T. H. Dickson, 1 — Lily and 
Helen, 3 — Jean Perry, 12 — Helen C. McCleary, 12 — Eula Lee Davidson, 1 — V. F., L. L. F. and D. F., 6 — No Name, New York, 
10 — " Maxie and Jackspar," 12 — Sidney Sommerfeld, 2 — Edith Woodward, 5 — Sarah C. Scott, 1 — Helen C. Skinner, 1 — V. A. C, 
2 — Belle MacMahon, 1 — Zoe H., 2 — Mary and Mabel Osgood, 12 — Clara Danielson, 2 — Aunt Kate, Mamma and Jamie, 12 — Lina 
Nyburg, 1 — Bessie Byfield, 3 — Eftie K, Talboys, 6 — Florence Young, 1 — Estelle Young, 1 — F. Sybil Moorbouse, 1 — " Nadjy," 
1 — Ed. and Bradley, 12 — Astley P. C. Ashhurst, 2 — Irma Moses, 1 — Marie A. Burnett, 1 — Ida C. Thallon, 10 — Elizabeth A. Adams, 
1 — " May and 79," S — D. L., 4 — Gladys, 2 — J. F. Gerrish and E. A. Daniel!, 12 — May Martin, 2 — Nora and Mother, 7 — Shyler, 
9 — Mattie E. Beale, 12 — Florence Parkhurst, 5 — Emma V. Fish, 3 — Henry Guilford, n — Mary C. Barringer, 1 — H. H. Alexander, 1 — 
D. M. Barringer, 1 — Arthur C. Hartich, 3 — Jennie, Mina and Isabel, 10 — Jo and I, 1 2 — Alice Turpin, 3 — Adrienne Forrester, 5 — 
Kate Guthrie, 1 — Edith and Marion, 7 — Mathilde Ida and Alice, 6 — Edith Oakley, 2 — Henry W. Bill, 2 — W. Sayre Kitchel, 2 — 
" Cosur de Lion and Shakespeare," 4 — George S. S, 4 — Alice A. Foster, 6 — Katie A. F. R., 2 — Horace Wilkinson, 7 — S. S., 4. 

Rimless Wheels. I. From 1 to S, Campbell ; from o to i6 7 
Barnabas. Cross-words : Cubeb, Aorta, molar, Posen, Bohea, Eliab, 
Lamia, lobes. II. From 1 to 8, Monmouth; from 9 to 16, Water- 
loo. Cross-words : Macaw, opera, nabit, midge, otter, usual, taboo, 
hollo. Charade. Summer. 

Hour-glass. Centrals, Bonaparte. Cross-words : 1. grumBling. 
2. chrOnic. 3. VeNus. 4. nAp. 5. P. 6. cAb. 7. arRow. 

8. plaTter. 9. promEnade. 

Rhvmed Double Acrostic. Primals, Cupid ; finals, arrow. 
Cross-words: 1. CallA. 2. UIsteR. 3. PalloR. 4. IndigO. 5 DaW. 

Diamond, i. T. 2. Tac. 3. Xeres. 4. Tenants. '5. Taran- 
tula. 6. Century. 7. Sturk. 8. Sly. 9. A. 

A Rhomboid. Across: 1. Ionic. 2. Sated. 3. Pedal. 4. Metal. 
5. Sedan. 

A Hexagon, i. Spur. 2. Pined. 3. 
5. Deduce. 6. Ducal. 7. Eels. 

Floral Puzzle, Rose Month. 1. Rush, 
fron. 4. Ebony. 5. Motherwort. 6. Osier. 7. 

9. Harebell. 


The letters in each of the following eleven groups may be trans- 
posed so as to form one word. When these are rightly guessed and 
placed one below another, in the order here given, the diagonals, 
from the upper left-hand corner to the lower right-hand corner, will 
spell something for which our forefathers fought. The diagonals, 
from the upper right-hand corner to the lower left-hand-corner, will 
spell a publication issued by our forefathers. 

1. Beat Lion, Tad. 

2. Unsoft rimes. 

3. I clap a stair. 

4. Con, ring toll. 

5. Marshall, mow. 

6. Rig a gun cone. 

7. To me a tin can. 

8. Go, musty sage. 

9. Shear, tier, C. R. 
10. I ty pond rose. 

11 I cut on Col. U. S. F. s. F. 


My primals and finals each name a famous geologist. 

Cross-words (of equal length) : 1. An iron block upon which 
metals are hammered. 2. A short prayer. 3. An Athenian. 4. A 
volley. 5. Slaughtered. 6. A mass of unwrought metal. 7. A 
plain face or plinth at the lower part of a wall. " dab kinzer." 


I AM composed of seventy-two letters, and form an old couplet 
about the month of July. 

My 7-56 is the first word of the couplet. My 41 is much used by 
letter-writers. My 13-22-55 is sometimes used for decorative pur- 
poses. My 30-66-28-72 is grayish-white. My 69-48-44-25 was 

a famous city of ancient times. My 4-11-60 is by what means. My 
37-16-32-20 is an ancient musical instrument. My 1-47 is the 
name of a mythological maiden who was transformed by Hera into 
a heifer. My 49-33-53-62 is vitality. My 9-18-39-46-42-67-29- 
70 is toughness. My 64-5-40 is a body of water. My 2-50-35 is 
limited in number. My 51-58-27 is to petition. My 26-8-36-24— 
63-15-31 is to corrugate. My 6-23-71 is an exclamation denoting 
contempt. My 52-65-17-12-38-68 is to choke. My 3-45-61-43- 
54-21 is a shivering. My 34-1 4-59-19-5 7-10 is a fish much esteemed 
by epicures. " cornelia blimber." 

In the above illustration are suggested the names of fourteen dif- 
ferent stitches used by needlewomen. What are the different 
stitches ? 




Across : i. To shine. 2. A southern constellation. 3. A bower. 
4. A vessel with one mast. 5. A city mentioned in the Bible. 

Downward: 1. In Bangor. 2. An exclamation. 3. An epoch. 
4. Tunes. 5. An old word meaning to wrap the head of in a hood. 
7. A perch. 

6. A portion of the day. 

8. A river in Italy. 



C. D. 

O ot eli ni eht prigneni garss 
Halt cruelfagiy snebd ot eht dwins atlh saps, 
Dan ot kolo float het koa-esveal hutgroh 
Toni het kys os depe, os buel ! 

O ot leef sa trelyut feer 
Sa eht cribride ginsing beavo no het rete, 
Ro het costlus pingip eirth wordsy wrirh, 
Ro het wond taht sisla romf eth sliteth-rrub I 


The answer to this rebus is a little story about the object which is 
pictured seventeen times in the accompanying illustration. 



All of the words described contain seven letters. When these 
are rightly guessed and placed one below the other, in the order 
here given, one row of letters (reading downward) will spell the 
name of a poet who died on July 21, 1796; and another row will 
spell the surname of a philanthropist who died on July 29, 1833. 

Cross-words: i. A biennial plant of the parsley family. 2. A 
singer in a choir. 3. Arranged in a schedule. 4. An Oriental 
drink' made of water, lemon-juice, sugar and rose-water. 5. Per- 
taining to the earth. 6. A club. 7. Sudden checks. 8. Resem- 
bling grume. 9. To depict. 10. Threatened, n. A small door 
or gate. cyril deane. 



" Direct the clasping ivy where to climb." — Milton. 

" The century living crow 
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died 
Among their branches, till at last they stood 
As now they stand, mossy, and tall and dark." — Bryant. 
"And words of true love pass from tongue to tongue 
As singing birds from one bough to another." — Longfellow. 


1. " Hills peep o'er hills, and Alps on Alps arise. 

2. " I will not presume 
To send such peevish tokens to a king," — Shaksp> 

3. *' Visions of childhood stay, oh, stay, 
Ye were so sweet and wild." — Hallcck, 



Cube. From 1 to 2, mixed together confusedly ; from 2 to 4, a 
title formerly given to the eldest son of the king of France; from 1 
to 3, to distress : from 3 to 4, stepped upon ; from 5 to 6, a part of 
which anything is made ; from 6 to 8, walked ; from 5 to 7, to com- 
pel; from 7 to 8, to cheer; from 1 to 5, meek; from 2 to 6, a jave- 
lin ; from 4 to 8, part of the day ; from 3 to 7, a narrative. 

Inclosed Square. 1. Mixed. 2. Always. 3. A Roman em- 
peror. 4. Stepped. clara o. 


My./fwi' and second, third and Jburt/b, 

Are golden coins of various worth ; 

While my initials will unfold 

A group of poems, quaint and old. B. 


I am a little word composed of only five letters, yet so great is my 
weight that strong men have been crushed by me, and I have been 
known to destroy life by pressing too heavily upon those with whom 
I came in contact. I am of the plural number, yet by adding the 
letters, I become singular. If, before adding the letters, you cut 
off my head and tail, what remains is a verb implying existence; but 
if, instead of thus mutilating me, you place my second letter before 
my first, I am changed into what will make a poor man rich. My 
3-2-1-4 is that in which many strive, but only one wins ; my 5-1-2- 
3-4 means to alarm ; my 5-4-2-3 is to burn ; my 1-2-3 i s vei T ne 9" 
essary in large cities; my 5-4-2 is enticing to many ; my 2-1-4 is 
one; my 2-3-1 is not complete ; my 4-2-3 is of very wonderful and 
delicate construction ; my 1-2-5-4 ' s visited very frequently by a 
physician, who frequently has more 1-2-3-4-5 than a follower of any 
other profession. f. r. f. 

t. Behead dingles, and leave beverages. 2. Behead to expect, and 
leave to attend. 3. Behead a useful instrument, and leave a tuft of 
hair. 4. Behead informed, and leave merchandise. 5. Behead a 
retinue, and leave to fall in drops. 6. Behead fanciful, and leave to 
distribute. 7. Behead to suppose, and leave to languish. 8. Behead 
at no time, and leave always. 

The beheaded letters will name what most children enjoy. 



My first and my second you '11 find in heat, 

In spring can neither be found ; 
My third and my fourth are in reading, you '11 see, 

And also in merry- go -round ; 
My fifth and my sixth are in moments of time; 

My seventh and eighth are in mean ; 
My ninth and my tenth and my eleventh you '11 find 

In a ponderous soup- tit re en. 

My whole, though imprisoned, rises and falls, 

Informing the great world whether 
It must stay in town and he making calls, 

Or picnicking out in the heather. 




Vol. XVI. AUGUST, 1889. No. 10. 

Copyright, 1S89, by The CENTURY Co. All rights reserved. 


By Helen Thayer Hutcheson. 

On the slope of a hill in the edge of a wood, 
Bloomed and nodded a sisterhood 
Of pale-tinted Blossoms that nobody knew, 
Saving the Wind and the Sun and the Dew. 

The Wind blew back the curtains of dawn, 
And the Sun looked out when the Wind was gone, 
And the flowers with the tears of the Dew were wet, 
When the Wind was flown, and the Sun was set. 

The Wind brought a wild Bee out of the west, 
To dream for an hour on a Blossom's breast, 
And the Sun left a Butterfly hovering there 
With wide wings poised on the golden air. 

And the Dew brought a Firefly to whirl and dance, 
In his own bewildering radiance, 

Round the slender green pillars that rocked as he flew, 
And shook off the tremulous globes of the Dew; 

The creatures of air gave the secret to me. 
I followed the hum of the heavy-winged Bee, 
I followed the Butterfly's wavering flight, 
I followed the Firefly's bewildering light. 

I found the pale Blossoms, that nobody knew ; 
They trusted the Sun, and the Wind, and the Dew ; 
The Dew and the Wind trusted Firefly and Bee. 
I give you the secret they gave unto me. 

By George Wharton Edwards. 

T is a weird and desolate 
spot, is Little Menan, 
— even on the clearest 
days, when the square, 
whitened light-house 
tower gleamsbrightly 
in the sunshine, re- 
minding one of a 
gravestone marking 
• ' the resting-place of 

so many who have " gone down to the sea in 
ships." But bright, clear days at Little Menan 
are rare ; the color of the sky is generally a leaden 
gray, and the whole place seems to be in mourn- 
ing for the countless wrecks that have happened 
in the neighborhood. 

Little Menan is a high rock rising from the sea 
to an altitude of two hundred feet, and is nine 
miles from the mainland. If you look on the map 
of Maine you may by chance find it, somewhere 
between Portland and Grand Menan. Toward the 
land it slopes gently to the water's edge, where 
there is a sort of natural harbor protected by a 
reef, and capable of holding a half-dozen sailing 
vessels comfortably during a storm. But all around 
are the ragged points of the innumerable reefs, 
sticking up like cruel teeth, over which the water 
seethes and bubbles and tosses, even in the calm- 
est weather. 

Seaward the rock is steep, rearing its full height 
suddenly and boldly from the sea, and the chart 
gives fifteen fathoms clear, at its very foot. How 
the tide roars as it comes in ! How it dashes 
against the face of the rock ! How mightily it 
piles itself in flashes of white and green flame upon 
the ragged rocks ! The white foam fairly dazzles 
one's eyes in the somber gray of the scene, and 
the mist twists and writhes curiously, as it is blown 
upward toward the tower. 

A desolate place, indeed, and Dan Humphrey 
thought so as he trimmed the lamps in the tower 
overhanging the wet and glistening rocks. He 
was somewhat bent and gray, and he had grown 
so at Little Menan Light, for gray hairs come fast 
when one has nothing to do but to watch sea and 
sky. He had come to the light, a young man with 
his wife, who loved him well enough to be willing 
to give up the society of the little town in which 
she was born, and, save for him, to live in solitude 
out in the sea. The monotony was broken twice 
a year by the arrival of the light-house steamer, 
bringing the government inspector, and supplies 
of coal, provisions, and oil for the lamps. 

So the time dragged itself along peacefully and 
happily enough for these two people, until there 
came into Dan Humphrey's life a day when hope 
and happiness died within him, — his cheery-faced, 
sweet-voiced little wife passed away with the set- 



ting of the sun, leaving with him a tiny stranger, 
whose wail grated upon his ears. 

Upon the death of his wife he fled to the tower; 
he did not look at the helpless atom in the nurse's 
arms ; he could not bear the sight. 

Dan Humphrey became a changed man. Nat- 
urally silent, he grew taciturn and ill-humored. 
He never took the child in his arms, never kissed 
it, nor manifested any interest in it whatever. 

He would sit up in the lantern for hours at a 
time, looking seaward, his hands beneath his 
square chin, his elbows resting upon his knees. 

Before his wife had been in heaven a year, every 
hair upon his head was white, and, while yet under 
forty, he seemed and acted like an old man. Still 
there was a certain hard, unbroken strength about 
him, and in spite of his appearance of age, he was 
not thought unequal to the duties of the light. 
He was grimly faithful to his trust ; no vessel ever 
looked in vain for Little Menan Light. At sun- 
down its beam shone in the sky like a white star; 
and at sunrise the curtains were drawn for the 
day. Beyond his duties he had no association 
with living interests. He never talked more than 
he could help with his old sister, who had come to 
attend to the wants of himself and the child ; but 
when he was alone in the tower, polishing the 
lenses and putting the lamps in order, she often 
heard his voice and the sound of his wife's name. 

In this atmosphere, and with these hardly cheer- 
ful surroundings, in the sole company of hard- 
featured, rough-voiced old Martha Ann, the little 
girl grew up. Left to herself most of the time, she 
haunted the rocks, knew of all sorts of wonderful 
caves in the cliff, and learned to swim like a little 
seal, in the warm shallow pools left by the tide 
high in the rock. Later on, old Martha Ann 
taught her to make biscuit, and fry fish, and mend 
and darn. Somehow she learned her letters, and 
could print them; and as for singing, why, her 
sweet, shrill little voice might have been heard a 
long distance from the rocks, as she sat going 
over and over again the camp-meeting songs she 
had learned from old Martha Ann. 

At length, one morning at breakfast, her father 
looked up, and in his rough voice, yet with a cer- 
tain kindness in his tone, said: 

"I 'm thinkin', Marthy Ann, that as Altie 's " 
(she had been named "Alta," for her mother) 
"close onto twelve year old, ye might be spared 
ter go off home to Friendshiptown. Folks '11 be 
glad ter see ye ag'in, and ther' ain't nothin' here 
thet Altie can't do just 's well es not. 'T ain't the 
liveliest place yere, an' ye won't mind goin'. Gov- 
er'ment boat '11 be yere ter-morrer, I cal'late, bein' 
es she 's due, and ye can be car'd over on her." 

Now, while Martha Ann wished to go home to 

Friendshiptown, she had certain qualms about leav- 
ing little Alta alone. But Dan Humphrey would 
hear of no opposition. So brave Altie took up her 
burden, and tended her father by night and day; 
but all her little deeds of kindness and acts of love 
brought forth from the father no word of love nor 
appreciation ; he never seemed to notice nor to care 
for her. Often she cried herself to sleep with a 
yearning that she could not have explained to her- 
self had she tried (and of course she did n't), for she 
did not know that it was a mother's love she craved. 
The only mother she had ever known was old 
Martha Ann. And now that slie was gone from 
Little Menan, it was lonely indeed. 

The few strangers who visited the light from the 
yachts which, during a "blow," occasionally took 
advantage of the shelter afforded by the excellent 
little harbor, were touched to see this quiet, womanly 
little girl attending to the duties of the household, 
grave and unsmiling, without any of the childish 
ways they were accustomed to see in children of 
her age. 

None the less, she had many boyish traits ; she 
could set a trawl, and underrun it, as "well as any 
fisherman. Her muscles became hardened, and 
her limbs sturdy and well rounded. To see her 
standing in the bow of her little green dory, in 
a yellow oil-jacket, and with tarpaulin hat tied 
tightly under her round little chin, one would have 
thought she really was a boy. She knew all the 
weather signs, and had made friends with the huge 
gray "shag" (a kind of gull) that had sat on 
the inner ledge ever since she could remember. 
She would row up to him quietly, as he sat watch- 
ing her intently with his beady eye's, and, when 
quite close, she would take some choice morsel of 
fish of which he was particularly fond, and throw 
it high in the air. As it fell, " Old Pat," as she 
had named him, would heavily flap his wings for a 
few moments, and then, rising slowly, with his 
yellow legs dangling so comically that she would 
laugh aloud, he would dive and secure the prize, 
clucking discordantly the while. When he had 
once more settled upon the rock, she would sit in 
the dory, and talk to him, while he snapped his 
bill with enjoyment. Who shall say what were 
the confidences that passed between them, or that 
they did not understand one another? 

Poor little thing! — she was very lonely after 
old Martha's departure from Little Menan ; but it 
never occurred to her to complain. She attended 
her father in her grave unchildish way, and 
greedily picked up whatever crumbs of comfort 
she could find in their intercourse. 

One day she was sitting at the table, with her 
elbows upon it and her hands under her chin, as 
she had so often seen her father sit, looking out 





of the deep-set square window. Old Dan, who 
had been ailing for some days, was in the large 
chair beside the stove. It was growing cold, it was 
in September, and this month on the Maine coast 
is often cold and foggy. Her father complained 
of a curious numbness in his side. 

Altie had attended to the lamps and filled the 
tank with oil. She had also wound up the heavy 
weight that turned the lamps at night. It was a 
hard task for the little one, and her arms ached. 
She was waiting for sundown, to light the burners. 

" How 's the wind, Altie ? " asked her father. 

Altie glanced at him, for his voice sounded thick 

was passing, its sails double-reefed and shining 
golden in the rays of the setting sun. " Goin' to 
be a blow," she said softly, as she uncovered and 
unscrewed the chimneys and taking up the torch 
applied it to the wicks, one by one. Now the lamps 
were all lighted, and pulling the little lever, as she 
had seen her father do, the lamps began to re- 
volve, and the long rays of light to shoot out over 
the wild expanse of waters. 

Looking through the lens, seaward, she pres- 
ently saw low down near the horizon the faint 
gleam of another light. She smiled to herself 
as she said: 


and unnatural. Then, looking out of the window 
to where the dory, moored far below, was nodding 
and tossing on the black and wrinkled water, she 
answered, "Bow to the nor'ard, — wind no'east." 

The father moved uneasily. " Go up and light 
her," he said. 

Altie took down the torch from its hook on the 
wall, lighted it, and opened the door at the side 
of the room where were the stone steps leading to 
the tower above. She ran up lightly — many and 
many a time had her little feet taken the same 
journey ! — and soon she was in the lantern. Put- 
ting the torch carefully on the iron shelf, she drew 
back the yellow curtains that shut the light away 
from the lenses ; for if, by chance, the sun were to 
shine through them, its rays would burn every- 
thing they fell upon. How they magnified the 
wild scene beneath ! Her little green dory dan- 
cing far below in the harbor seemed almost near 
enough to touch. How the water boiled arjd 
dashed upon the ledge ! A huge three-master 

" Got ahead of Seguin to-night, again." 
Putting out the torch, and giving one last 
glance about, to see that everything was right, 
she descended the stairs and entered the room 
where her father sat. "All right, Father," she 
said. Taking up a basket, which she placed on 
the table, she seated herself, and selecting a stock- 
ing began to mend a gaping hole in the heel, 
singing softly a hymn that she had learned from 
Martha Ann : 

" Gathered as the sands on the sea-shore; 
Numberless as the sands on the shore. 
Oh, what a sight 't will be — 
When the ransomed hosts we see — 
As numberless as the sands on the sea-shore." 

"Altie!" called out her father in a strangely 
altered voice, "Altie — child, — I 'm numb — I 
can't — move ! — water ! — I 'm burning ! " 

The child ran to him. He was leaning over 
the side of the chair. Putting her sturdy little 



arms about him, she lifted him back against the 
cushion. As she looked in his face, she gave a 
cry of fear. It was all drawn to one side. 

" Oh, Father," she cried, '"what is it — what is 

The man tried to speak, but only a babbling 
came from his lips ; he waved his left hand up 
and down. Little Altie ran, got water, gave him 
to drink, bathed his head, chafed his hands, 
called out to him to speak to her ! She loved him 
dearly, this cold, silent man. All his silence 
toward her was forgotten, and, indeed, had 
hardly ever been noticed by her. There was im- 
planted in her little heart an affection for him that 
no coldness could kill, that no neglect could 
extinguish. It was her legacy from the dead 

Then her little heart sank within her, as she saw 
that he did not revive, but continued to wave his 
left hand — the right hung helpless — and mumble 
and cry out. A terrible fear came over her. 
What could she do ? She bathed his hot fore- 
head and burning bosom, but it was of no avail. 
He was burning with a fever she could not cool. 
Of illness she had had no experience whatever. 
There was a medicine-chest under the window, in 
the locker, but she had never opened it. The 
key hung on her father's key-ring she knew, but 
the remedies were of no use to her, for she did not 
know which to use. 

All that long night she bathed her father's hot 
head and hands. 

The Portland steamer passed at half-past nine. 
She heard the chug, chug, chug, of the paddles, 
and ran out with a lighted lantern, and waved it, 
in hope that they might see it and send a boat to 
know what was the trouble ; but the steamer kept 
steadily upon its course, and soon the lights of its 
saloon windows were lost in the night. 

Morning dawned at last, a wild and stormy one. 
How the wind blew ! 

Her father seemed to be asleep. All the night, 
while bathing her father's head, she had been 
busy with plans of what she would do. Her own 
little head ached with the thinking. All her plans 
resolved themselves into one conclusion : she must 
get help from the mainland, nine miles away. 

But then how could she leave her father alone 
until she returned? — and she might not be back 
in time to light the lamps in the tower ! She tried 
again and again to rouse her father, to make him 

"Father!" she said. "Father! I must go 
over to Friendshiptown for the doctor. Do you 
understand ? I must leave you alone, while I go 
for help ! " 

For an instant the man started forward with a 

gleam of intelligence in his glazed eyes ; then he 
dropped back into his old listless attitude, and 
aimlessly waved his left hand. He tried to speak, 
and she bent her ear down to his lips, but only an 
unintelligible mumble came from them. 

"What shall I do?" she cried, wringing her 

Outside, the wind was piling up the surf upon 
the jagged rocks ; great numbers of gulls soared 
about the island and screamed discordantly. The 
sky was a pale green, and the water between 
Little Menan and the shore was black-blue, and 
its wrinkled surface was wind-swept in long, curious 
lines from the north-east. The mainland stood 
out bold and clear, and the white houses of Friend- 
shiptown seemed hardly more than two miles 
away, and gleamed against the dark green of the 

Altie placed a pitcher of water and some cold 
boiled fish where her father could reach them, and, 
carefully banking the fire in the stove with fresh 
coal, she donned her yellow oil-jacket, and tied 
the strings of her tarpaulin hat under her chin. 
Then, slipping on a pair of high rubber boots, she 
kissed her unconscious father, closed the door of 
Little Menan light-house, and in five minutes was 
off to where her little green dory rocked and 
swayed in the angry water of the harbor. 

It was hard work to step the mast and hoist the 
little sail, in the strong wind, but Altie had been 
out in bad weather before, and knew how to han- 
dle her dory ; and soon she was seated in the stern, 
oar in one hand to steer, and sheet in the other, 
skimming away toward the mainland. 

Friendshiptown lies well down behind the finger 
of land that juts out before it. Its harbor was full 
of mackerel-seiners, mainsails up and all heading 
the same way, for there was a " weather-breeder" 
in the sky, and Friendshiptown had gathered itself 
for the coming storm. 

Friendshiptown, to a man, had sought shelter 
under the sheds that lined the wharves, where it 
could see the harbor and the vessels, and whatever 
of interest might come to pass. There, leaning 
its back against the anchors, old capstans, sails, or 
mackerel-barrels, it looked over toward the gleam 
of the square, white light-house tower, on Little 
Menan, and said more or less shrewdly : " Well ! 
I cal'late we 're goin' ter hev a spell o' weather ! " 

And in the house, the woman, whose father, 
husband, or brother was with the fleet on the 
Banks, murmured a prayer, and said aloud, " I 
wish 't Tom," — or Sam. or Ben, — " was ashore ! " 

A boy with a high forehead, round greeny-blue 
eyes, and tow hair combed behind his large, flar- 
ing red ears, who was attired in a large tarpaulin 




hat and a pair of historic trousers, sat on a bar- Sure enough ! In the driving sea, against the 
rel-head among the fishermen under the shed band of orange light in the sky, could be dimly 
on the wharf, industriously whittling away at the seen a small, dark object, now rising on the top 


heel of one of his huge cow-hide boots. Suddenly of a huge blue-black wave, only to hang there 

he straightened himself, stood up, shut his knife, for an instant and then to disappear in the trough 

and, pointing toward the mouth of the harbor, of the next sea. 

ejaculated: " Thar, b' cracky ! " spoke up one of the men, 

" Jing ! — ef there ain't a dory a-corain' round " he 's gone this time — sure 's a gun ! Thet 'ar 

the p'int ! " wave es riz last, swamped 'im ; 't ain't no boat, 

i8S 9 ., 



less 'n one made o' cork, es kin live in any sea 
like this 'n' ! " 

A moment's suspense followed ; then the watch- 
ers saw the tiny boat lifted on the crest of a huge 
wave and borne forward. There was a sigh of 
relief from the men, and the red-eared boy threw 
up his tarpaulin with a yell : 

" Whoever 's a-sailin' 0' thet dory knows what 
'e 's a-doin' ! " 

" Thar, Cass," said the man who spoke first, — 
he seemed to be the patriarch, — "jest ye run up 
ter the woman " (that is, wife) ; ' and git my glass. 
I '11 jest spy out ter oncet who 't is a-navigatin' o' 
thet ther' dory. I don't re-cog-nize the boat. It 
ain't f'm Bremen," he added aggressively, look- 
ing about him at the others. No one taking up the 
cudgel thus cast down, the patriarch again fixed 
his eye upon the strange boat. 

The moments passed painfully ; the wind had 
shifted suddenly to the westward, and the dory 
was compelled to beat. It rose and fell regularly 
upon the black tumultuous waves ; and, as a huge 
mound of water grew behind it, the watchers in 
their excitement rose to their feet. As the billow 
reached the dory, the crest broke in a long line of 
white and pale green, completely hiding the little 
craft. "Swamped!" called out the patriarch, 
drawing the back of his horny hand across his lips. 

But, no! — a moment later the tiny boat ap- 
peared, struggling up the side of a huge wave. 

"Mast's down! mast's down!" passed from 
lip to lip ; and it was seen that the occupant of 
the boat had the oars out and was keeping the 
boat before the wind. 

" It 's the dory f'm Little Menan Light ! I kin 
spy the letters on 'er bow," came down to them 
from the rocks above the wharf, where stood the 
red-eared boy, with the glass glued to his watery 
blue eyes. 

By this time most of Friendshiptown was gath- 
ered on the wharves, for the news had spread 
through the little town that a dory was struggling 
in the storm off the point. Out in the harbor, on 
the seiners, men were running to and fro, and soon 
half a dozen dories were launched from the decks, 
where they lay in nests, fitted together like baskets, 
and the fishermen could be seen jumping into 
them by twos and threes. 

The little green dory was by this time abreast 
of the " Barrel," a huge and dangerous rock that 
lifted itself above the water just inside of the point. 
Sturdy arms pulled the oars of the huge dories, 
and shortly they were alongside. The fishermen 
could be seen standing up in the boats ; then they 
all came together and hid the little dory from 
sight. As the people on the wharves leaned 
breathlessly forward, a ringing cheer came faintly 

to them upon the whistling wind ; and then, as 
the boats parted, the little green dory was seen in 
tow of the foremost boat, and empty. 

" I see 'im a-settin in the starn," said one, as 
the glass was passed from hand to hand. " It 's 
Dan Humphrey," said another, "'cause it's shore 
enough Dan's boat. And ther' ain't no one ter 
be in 'er but 'im, — stands ter reason ! " "I kain't 
see no baird," said the first speaker, " 'n' Dan 's 
got a baird ! " He meant a beard. 

Here the pop-eyed youth took possession of the 
glass. " Hey ! " he yelled, presently, " ef it ain't 
Altie Humphrey ! I tell ye I know that green 
tarpaulin hat. Ain't I seen her enough times off 
Owl Head a-underrunning on 'er trawl, with it onto 
her head ? " 

In a paroxysm of triumph over his discovery he 
began dancing about and yelling out, " It 's Altie 
Humphrey ! " at the top of his lungs, when he 
caught a backhander from the patriarch of the 
wharf, who hoarsely growled out, " Stow that, 
consarn yer ! Kain't yer see Marthy Ann 's ahind 
of yer ? " 

As the foremost boat reached the wharf, with its 
crew of fishermen and the little figure in the stern, 
one of the schooners out in the harbor was seen to 
hoist its jib and foresail and stand away in the 
direction of Little Menan. Tenderly the little 
figure in the queer, green tarpaulin hat, oil-coat, 
and heavy boots was passed up to willing, anxious 
hands on the wharf, surrounded by the women, 
and at length carried by the patriarch up the hill, 
the yellow, curly hair falling over his shoulder 
from under the hat, the limp, wet brown hand 
lying heavily on his neck, — for little Altie had 

There is not much more to tell. It was a long 
time before Altie was able to be about again. With 
her short, cropped hair, — for, during the fever which 
followed her rescue, she had it all cut short, — she 
looked more than ever like a boy. But as all this 
happened some years ago, it has had time to grow 
again. I hear that she is living with the patri- 
arch, who has adopted her. Dan Humphrey is 
living with them, but is paralyzed ; he can say 
only a few words, although he seems to understand 
what is said to him. And, singularly enough, 
these words are the echo of what he said to little 
Altie in the tower on Little Menan during that 
dreadful storm, — " Light 'er up, Altie." 

The government gives him a pension, in con- 
sideration of his faithful service; and this, with the 
money he saved from his salary, is sufficient to 
keep them comfortably. 

His chair is so placed that by day he can seethe 
square tower of the light-house gleaming against 



the sky; and by night he watches its revolving instant been taken from him. He has a set of flags 
ray as it sweeps the horizon. It is touching to see which he raises on a pole against the side of the 
the care Altie lavishes upon him in his uncon- house, as the vessels enter the harbor, and is quite 


scious, crippled condition. He does not heed it happy in the belief that he holds an important gov- 
now, any more than he did in his tower on Little eminent position ; indeed, this is his only interest. 
Menan. Yet that tenderness has never for one And so the time passes. 


By Sarah M. B. Piatt. 


S^gtajt^o, my pretty flower-folk 

Are in a mighty flutter ; 
All your nurse, the wind, 

can do, 
Is to scold and mutter. 

•' We intend to have a ball 

(That 's why we are fret- 
And our neighbor-flowers have 
Fallen to regretting. 

" Many a butterfly we send 
Far across the clover. 
(There '11 be wings enough to 

When the trouble 's over. ) 

' Many a butterfly comes home 

Torn with thorns and blighted, 
Just to say they can not come, — 
They whom we Ve invited. 

" Yes, the roses and the rest 

Of the high-born beauties 
Are 'engaged,' of course, and pressed 
With their stately duties. 

'• They 're at garden-parties seen; 
They 're at court presented : 
They look prettier than the Queen ! 
(Strange that 's not resented.) 

" ' Peasant-flowers ' they call us — we 
Whose high lineage you know — 
We, the ox-eyed children (sec !) 
Of Olympian Juno." 

(Here the daisies all made eyes / 
And they looked most splendid. 

As they thought about the skies, 
Whence they were descended.) 

" In our saintly island (hush !) 
Never crawls a viper, 
Ho, there, Brown-coat! that's the thrush: 
He will be the piper. 

" In this Irish island, oh, 
We will stand together. 
Let the loyal roses go ; — 
We don't care a feather. 

" Strike up, thrush, and play as though 
All the stars were dancing. 
So they are ! And — here we go — 
Is n't this entrancing? " 

Swaying, mist-white, to and fro, 

Airily they chatter, 
For a daisy-dance, you know, 

Is a pleasant matter. 


By Malcolm Douglas. 

Two crabs who were out on the beach to walk " Then if we stay," said the other, " it 's plain 
Shook claws when they met and stopped to talk. That both of us will be caught in the rain." 

" We 're going to have a storm," one said. 
" Just look at those big clouds overhead ! " 

So, ere the threatened shower began, 
Back in the water they quickly ran. 




By Charles S. Robinson. 

It seems to be customary now for tourists who 
visit Egypt, to get possession of a mummy, if pos- 
sible, or a piece of one, or some sort of relic of 
one, in order to secure recognition as first-class 
orientalists. Just so, in Crusading time, pilgrims 
brought home branches from the Holy Land, and 
were delighted at being called " palmers" there- 
after. But things are not always what they seem. 
A museum in the back parlor lacks the enthusiasm 
which is indispensable to the proper endurance of 
certain classes of oriental curios. There are many 
remains of ancient civilization that shine, and 
others that make one shudder; and travelers are 
not as discriminating in their purchases as they 
might be. It has mournfully to be admitted of 
Egyptian souvenirs that when they are good they 
are very good, and when they are bad they are 

Two objects have come to the knowledge of the 
writer of this article which are more than worth 
having; they are worth more than the wealth of 
a thousand worlds like ours, provided one regards 
them as an investment of money, and makes his 
calculations at compound interest. 

Of the one of them which met my eye first I 
do not care to speak very much at length ; but it 
should be indicated and described. It has no in- 
scription nor legend to help in its identification; 
but the wisest authorities declare that it belongs to 
the Ptolemaic age, or at all events to the Greek- 
Roman period which succeeded it. That gives a 
generous margin of about six hundred years just 
before and just after the birth of our Lord Jesus 
Christ, within the limits of which its history must 
be reckoned. It is a silver bracelet, about two 
and a half inches in diameter, solid and stiff, and 

was cutting the lines upon it, it may possibly have 
been he could have heard the strain of the first 
Christmas carol by the angels, if only he had been 
in Palestine rather than in Egypt, and had chanced 
to be out on Bethlehem hills one night four years 
before "A. D." began. 

The other object is of more interest still to all 
of us. It is a chain of exquisite gold, a rich orange 
yellow in color, with links dexterously twined 
one upon another. It is about thirteen inches 
long, three-eighths of an inch wide, and as nearly 
a tenth of an inch thick as I can measure it with 
a rule. The ends of it were at first fitted only 
with small solid rings set into clamps beautifully 
ornamented with leaf-work. Perhaps it was fast- 
ened to the wearer's neck by a filament or cord 
of silk tied through. The present owner has 
arranged a modern clasp in the shape of the lotus- 
flower. It can still be used, and indeed as well 
as ever, as an ornament for one in full dress. It is 
so flexible, falling down into picturesque folds the 
moment it is let go, that it seems more like a rib- 
bon of delicate tissue than like mere metal. An 
expert goldsmith told me, after he had examined 
it with his glass, that it undoubtedly had a perfect- 
ness of uniformity in the links which could be 
found only in a chain manufactured by machinery. 

This was to me a matter of wonder, for I was 
not prepared to learn that the ancient Egyptians 
had the knowledge of machines which could pro- 
duce woven fabrics from pure gold. It was at once 
a discovery and a delight. It must be confessed 
that when I have spoken of this necklace as be- 
longing to a princess I have had no actual authority.' 
It dates from the age of Moses, if Herr Emile 
Brugsch is correct in his supposition (see letter, 

put on like a modern bangle by an awkward page 734) as to its belonging to the nineteenth 

stretching of its spiral to get one's hand through. 
It is unjoined, of course, at the ends, each of which 
is flattened out in a wide surface so as to be en- 
graved with the figure of a stately deity in the 
form of a human bust crowned with emblems of 
supremacy. We may reckon this as nearly nineteen 
hundred years old, and so standing as a coeval rep- 
resentative of the whole Christian era. It is worth 
looking at for its own sake, even though we know 
nothing of its ancient owner. While the graver 

dynasty, — a learned period, it is a fact, but how 
much acquaintance the nation had then with deli- 
cate machinery it is not easy to say. This orna- 
ment was found in one of that range of tombs 
opened along the Nile, where royal and priestly 
burials were frequent. It may have been worn by 
a daughter of a king, but not yet is any one able to 
give her name, her lineage, or her history. 

These two acquisitions made in Cairo, two or 
three years ago, have been of themselves a peculiar 



help to me. They are accompanied by one of 
those letters giving careful and skillful authenti- 
cation from Emile Brugsch, which he, as the di- 
rector of the museum, is accustomed to bestow 
upon strangers who purchase ; he never goes be- 
vond what he can candidly aver, and so his testi- 
monials are always of interest and real value. 

It so happened that I was delivering a course 
of lectures on Egyptian history, as illustrated by 
the discoveries of some 
mummies now on exhibi- 
tion in the museum at 
Bulak, near Cairo ; and 
I wished to make a vivid 
impression, — especially 
upon the minds of the 
younger people among 
my hearers, — which 
would convey to them 
the meaning of such a 
period of time as three 
thousand or four thou- 
sand years. I told them, 
in a familiar way, just 
before I began my lect- 
ure, how interesting this 
necklace had proved to 
me ; and I promised to 
borrow it again and bring 
it for the next week's 
lecture. But I asked the 
boys and girls to make a 
calculation to show what 
a great, great while three 
thousand years of time 
must be. 

Years ago, when arith- 
metics less accurate than 
those now in use were 
put in the hands of schol- 
ars, it used to be given 
as a rule that money, at 
compound interest at 
six per cent, a year, 
would double itself once 
in every eleven years or 
a little more ; now the 
rules say it requires 

twelve. To render the big problem a possibility 
for even the youngest mathematicians, we settled 
on thirty-six hundred years ago, as the time when 
the Egyptian girl wore her beautiful chain. 

Then the question was this: How much would 
the money which bought the gold chain, if it had 
been American money, thus put at compound in- 
terest for thirty-six hundred years at six per cent., 
amount to to-day if the original price had been 

equal to twenty dollars? Then I gave the hint, 
so as to help a little in the outset with the smaller 
boys, that it could be answered by solid work in 
multiplying, of course ; but that this would be very 
long and wearisome. It could also be answered 
according to the common rules of geometrical pro- 
gression. And it could be answered, more easily 
yet, by the same rule expressed in a formula, made 
up of algebraic signs and letters. But the best way 



to reach the end quickly, would be to bear in mind 
that twelve would go into thirty-six hundred just 
three hundred times ; so this sum of twenty dollars 
would have to be considered as doubling itself 
three hundred times. That is, the problem would 
be made perfectly clear, if only we could ascertain 
what would be the three hundredth power of two, 
and then multiply that vast sum by the twenty 
dollars which the necklace cost in the beginning. 




The matter excited much enthusiasm in the 
public schools ; but almost all found the enor- 
mous figures needed for the calculation too 
much for their patience. There was one plucky 

Bot.L.Oi?%. /i^L^&U^U— i8s£ 



-^0/ ' \r~ */<? S~ rt *3 -^& £*^# s?7£^£&> 



/JsOc^c^^^^ /A* a*&/ 

<? C*-*>-J ow Ct^t c-<r__ 


boy who toiled through with a wonderful cour- 
age. Seven days after that lecture was over, he 
sent me a letter saying that he had done his 
best and believed he had the correct result. It 
should be stated, however, that at first I had given 
out the number of thirty-three, instead of thirty-six,, 
hundred years, for I had in mind the old rule 

which gave eleven years as the period in which a 
sum would double itself, instead of twelve. Hence 
my brave boy's answer was this: $65,476,163, 
865,100, — and then add sixty-nine more ciphers! 
He said that he had dropped the decimal places in 
the last two or three multiplications, and this 
would change in some small measure the grand 
result. For, indeed, it was grand. 

It is not necessary for me to pronounce whether 
this answer is a true one : I have never been care- 
fully over the figures. Life is short, and I can 
prolong my usefulness, I am persuaded, by pru- 
dently avoiding such mathematical problems as 
this lad undertook to solve by a reckless exertion 
of main strength in simple multiplication. So I 
beg leave to admit that his answer satisfies all 
needs of investment which I expect ever to con- 
template with necklaces or anything else. But if 
I ever need a patient, faithful, hard-working boy, 
to trust, I think possibly I know where to find him, 
and I shall remember his name. 

Then maturer mathematicians took up the prob- 
lem. Earliest among them was " a schoolma'am." 
I saw her afterwards, with her fair hair in plain 
parting upon her broad forehead ; and now I have 
one more good friend. She was unfortunate in 
catching the exact sums mentioned upon the plat- 
form, and so took three thousand two hundred, 
instead of three hundred. But (as she wrote) " it 
made but little difference." The ingenuity was 
perfectly legitimate inher process of calculation, and 
so she saved an enormous amount of work by rais- 
ing 106, that is, $1.06, to the fortieth power, and 
multiplying that by itself; thus she reached the 
eightieth power, and by multiplying that by the 
twentieth power she gained the hundredth. After 
that, she multiplied the hundredth by the hun- 
dredth, and so got the two hundredth. Then the 
advances pushed on rapidly; the two hundredth 
power was multiplied by the two hundredth in turn, 
and the resulting four hundredth, by the four hun- 
dredth, and then the eight hundredth by the eight 
hundredth, gave the sixteen hundredth, which, 
multiplied by itself, brought the thirty-second hun- 
dredth power. 

A single multiplication more did the work ; and 
I think it was an industrious achievement of climb- 
ing mathematical stairs, that might become as 
famous as Xenophon's retreat of the ten thousand, 
or Sherman's march through Georgia to the sea, 
if only it had the proper poet to sing its praises. 
The result was this: $6,462,434,595,555,262,158, 
761, 846,458,349, 521,917, 919, 009, 818, 238, 064, 
906, 501, 568,467,523,393,211, S37, 120, 242,444, 
906,380.08. It may be said that one of the high- 
est authorities in the land has pronounced this 
enormous result to be practically correct. 

i8S 9 .] 



By this time, the popular enthusiasm was kindled 
to a blaze. People tried to numerate these ninety 
figures, so as to tell each other how much the 
twenty dollars invested in a necklace would be 
worth if invested for thirty-three hundred years at 
compound interest ; and nobody could read out the 
sum. Experts took up the problem ; one was a 
soldier trained in the use of logarithms and such 
things as they work with up at West Point. The 
problem was rather simple, when one had tables 
and knew how to treat them. This "lightning- 
calculator " wrote a calm letter which showed that 
he knew what he was talking about. He said that 
the only way of solving the problem with absolute 
correctness, was to compute the interest by ordi- 
nary methods thirty-three hundred times, carrying 
all the decimals, however many, as they could not 
safely be disregarded in an operation so extensive 
and of such magnitude. He added that the 
approximate solution might be obtained with ease 
by means of logarithms ; but, it would have to be 
confessed that logarithms were only approxima- 
tions to the truth. Then he defined his position 
by remarking that in ordinary logarithmic opera- 
tions six decimal places are used. In others, where 
a larger number would be involved, or a greater 
accuracy desired, twelve decimals are employed ; 
and in extensive problems in surveying or star- 
measuring, a much larger increase would have to 
be used. He pronounced this particular problem 
one which transcended inconceivably any of the 
historic calculations thus far attempted, and in- 
sisted that any accurate working of it by means 
of logarithms must be far from the absolute truth, 
and that only the first few figures could really be 
vouched for. 

Taking twelve places of decimals, therefore, he 
offered his solution, which he hoped would prove 
as correct as could be obtained with customary 
means. So he resolved his question into a geo- 
metrical progression in which n, the number of 
terms, is 3,301 ; a, as the first term, would be 20; 
r, the constant ratio, would be 1.06: and /, the 
last term, must be the answer required. 

The formula for working would be given in 
words thus : the last term equals the first term 
multiplied by the ratio raised to the power indi- 
cated by the number of terms less one. Then he 
works out the problem. 

The logarithm of r is .025305865265. Multi- 
plying this by 3,300, or 11 -1, we have 83.5093553- 
74500. Multiply by 20, or add the logarithm of 
«, that is, 20; so we get 84.810385370164, the 
logarithm of /. 

This last is the logarithm of the required answer, 
and indicates that the result contains 85 integral 
figures. The number that answers to this in the 

tables is: $6,462,274,246,268,656,716,417,910,447, 
761,044, 776, 104,477,610,447,761,044,776, 104, 
477.810,447,761,044,776,104,477.61. This would 
be the value of the gold. 

Alluding to the proposition itself, he remarks 
that the old calculation was faulty, in that, as a 
matter of fact, a sum of money would not double 
itself in eleven years at compound interest at six 
per cent. It would require nearer twelve than 
eleven : the amount of $20 for eleven years would 
be only $37.97; but for twelve years would be 
$40.25. A difference would be made between the 
two results if the problem should be worked out 
on the other basis; indeed, the result would be 
nearly a hundred and sixty thousand times too 
great. But he observes with a calm quaintness 
peculiarly mathematical, " That would not matter 

For now we reach the great mystery and won- 
derment of this calculation : the result of it is 
simply bewildering. I am willing to admit that it 
has seemed to me so incomprehensible that I have 
sent the general problem around to some of the 
best men in the country. My friend whose ex- 
planation gave so much help proposed a curious 
illustration of the result he had reached. To show 
how inconceivably enormous is this sum of money, 
let it be assumed that ten silver dollars, piled upon 
one another, are one inch in height. Six hun- 
dred and thirty-three thousand six hundred dollars 
thus placed would extend a mile. Assume the 
whole distance from the earth to the sun to be 
95,000,000 miles. The number of silver coins 
thus piled, necessary to bridge the firmament, be- 
tween sun and earth, would be 60, 192,000,000,000. 
Suppose the number of dollars shown in the an- 
swer we got to the problem, should be put into 
columns, going up to the sun and back. The num- 
ber of those columns nobody could read aloud ; 
we do not know how to numerate such strings of 
integers. The number of times the dollars would 
go to the sun would claim seventy-one places of 
figures to state them. A rough calculation which 
anybody can make will show that this amount of 
silver, cast into a solid mass, would be bigger than 
the sun and entire solar system if combined. 
What mind can conceive this? 

Since I began to use this chain as an illustration, 
I have heard from another eminent teacher whose 
position on the staff of the Albany Academy is 
proof of his scholarship. I raised the conditions 
of the problem, lately, and am now accustomed 
to mention the time as 3600 years ; and it is bet- 
ter to say twelve years than eleven for the period 
of doubling at compound interest ; all this is to 
make round numbers. It has brought me a 
large number of estimates in illustration. The 



mathematical professor at Albany worked out the 
problem, and I have his result. He requires 
ninety-two places of figures to state it. In exact 
detail it is this: $12,625,000,000,000,000,000,000, 
000, 000, 000, 000, 000, oco, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 
000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000, 
000. Then this is to be multiplied also by twenty, 
because it was twenty dollars which was put at in- 
terest, and the result represents the actual value of 
the necklace. A likelier actual present value for 
this necklace, however, would be about a hundred 
dollars ! Then he follows with some very sugges- 
tive comments and illustrations. 

Practically, the above sum is infinity. The in- 
terest upon it for one year would be practically 
infinite. The fact that those ninety-two places are 
virtually, and to all intents and purposes, infinity, 
may become more evident by considering that, if 
the amount originally put at interest had been one 
cent instead of one dollar, the result would only 
be lessened by two places of figures, — that is, one 
one-hundredth ; so if one mill were originally the 
principal, the result would be lessened by three 
places of figures ; or, in other words, would be one 
one-thousandth. The mind can not conceive of 
any such numbers ; it can not appreciate any such 
differences in the results ; the figures throw all as- 
tronomical ones into the shade — even such as are 
used in reckoning with the remotest stars. If we 
take the velocity of light, and then say it will need 
four years to travel from a distant constellation, 
the whole distance so ascertained is little compared 

with a result measured by a line of ninety-two fig- 
ures. All the wealth of the world, real and per- 
sonal, would not approach such a number of 
dollars ; a million of worlds would not approach 
it ! What is a man to do with such revelations ? 

And then, in order to calm my perturbed mind 
and clear my bewildered brain, I sent the entire 
calculations and comments and illustrations to my 
honored friend, Professor Newton of Yale Uni- 
versity. This patient man was good enough to 
examine them, and he says they are correct, in the 
main, in all their particulars. And he puts some 
interesting questions of his own, that are excellent 
to close this article with. 

He bids me ask " my arithmeticians " to com- 
pute the size of a pile of diamonds worth one 
million dollars to the cubic inch, which pile, as a 
mass, should be worth the difference between the 
twenty dollars, put out at interest at six per cent, 
compounded annually, and the same put out to 
be compounded semi-annually, for thirty-six hun- 
dred years. He grows bold enough to say that 
this difference, when the interest is at three per 
cent, for six months, is several times as great as 
the vast amount we have been already contem- 
plating. So now, having set me to gazing awhile 
at such a pile of diamonds, he proposes that 1 ask 
some one just to compute how many such spheres 
of diamonds it will take to reach a star, provided 
it is a million times as far away as the sun. And 
then he adds: "Of course this is all play with 
numbers, but it interests." 


By Frank Dempster Sherman. 

When out-of-doors is full of rain, 
I look out through the window-pane, 
And see the branches of the trees, 
Like people dancing to the breeze. 

I listen, and I hear the sound 
Of music floating all around, 
And fancy 't is the Breeze who plays 
Upon his harp on stormy days. 

They bow politely, cross, and meet, 
Salute their partners and retreat, 
And never stop to rest until 
They reach the end of the quadrille. 

The strings are made of rain, and when 
The branches wish to dance again, 
They whisper to the Breeze, and he 
Begins another melody. 

I 've heard him play the pretty things 
Upon those slender, shining strings ; 
And when he 's done — he 's very sharp, 
He always hides away the harp. 

By Richard H. Davis. 

HE BOYS living 
at the Atlantic 
House, and the 
boys boarding 
at Chadwick's, 
held mutual 
sentiments of 
something not 
unlike enmity 
— feelings of 
hostility from 
which even the 
older boarders 
were not al- 
together free. 
Nor was this 
unnatural under the circumstances. 

When Judge Henry S. Carter and his friend 
Dr. Prescott first discovered Manasquan, such an 
institution as the Atlantic House seemed an impos- 
sibility, and land improvement companies, Queen 
Anne cottages, and hacks to and from the railroad 
station, were out of all calculation. At that time 
" Captain " Chadwick's farmhouse, though not 
rich in all the modern improvements of a seaside 
hotel, rejoiced in a table covered three times a day 
with the good things from the farm. The river, 
back of the house, was full of fish, and the pine- 
woods along its banks were intended by Nature 
expressly for the hanging of hammocks. 

Vol. XVI.— 47. 7 

The chief amusements were picnics to the head 
of the river (or as near the head as the boats could 
get through the lily-pads), crabbing along the 
shore, and races on the river itself, which, if it was 
broad, was so absurdly shallow that an upset meant 
nothing more serious than a wetting and a tem- 
porary loss of reputation as a sailor. 

But all this had been spoiled by the advance of 
civilization and the erection of the Atlantic House. 

The railroad surveyors, with their high-top boots 
and transits, were the first signs of the approach- 
ing evils. Afterthemcame the Ozone Land Com- 
pany, which bought up all the sand hills bordering 
on the ocean, and proceeded to stake out a flour- 
ishing "city by the sea " and to erect sign-posts 
in the marshes to show where they would lay out 
streets, named after the directors of the Ozone 
Land Company and the Presidents of the United 

It was not unnatural, therefore, that the Carters, 
and the Prescotts, and all the Judge's clients, and 
the Doctor's patients, who had been coming to 
Manasquan for many years, and loved it for its 
simplicity and quiet, should feel aggrieved at these 
great changes. And though the young Carters 
and Prescotts endeavored to impede the march of 
civilization by pulling up the surveyor's stakes and 
tearing down the Land Company's sign-posts, the 
inevitable improvements marched steadily on. 

I hope all this will show why it was that the 





boys who lived at the Atlantic House — and dressed 
as if they were still in the city, and had " hops " 
every evening — were not pleasing to the boys who 
boarded at Chadwick's, who never changed their 
flannel suits for anything more formal than their 
bathing-dresses, and spent the summer nights on 
the river. 

This spirit of hostility and its past history were 
explained to the new arrival at Chadwick's by 
young Teddy Carter, as the two sat under the 
willow tree watching a game of tennis. The new 
arrival had just expressed his surprise at the ear- 
nest desire manifest on the part of the entire Chad- 
wick establishment to defeat the Atlantic House 
people in the great race which was to occur on 
the day following. 

" Well, you see, sir," said Teddy, " consider- 
able depends on this race. As it is now, we stand 
about even. The Atlantic House beat us playing 
base-ball — though they had to get the waiters to 
help them — and we beat them at tennis. Our 
house is great on tennis. Then we had a boat- 
race, and our boat won. They claimed it was n't 
a fair race, because their best boat was stuck on 
the sand-bar, and so we agreed to sail it over 
again. The second time the wind gave out, and 
all the boats had to be poled home. The Atlan- 
tic House boat was poled in first, and her crew 
claimed the race. Was n't it silly of them ? Why, 
Charley Prescptt told them, if they 'd only said it 
was to be a poling match, he 'd have entered a 
mud-scow and left his sail-boat at the dock ! " 

" And so you are going to race again to-mor- 
row ? " asked the new arrival. 

" Well, it is n't exactly a race," explained Teddy. 
■ * It 's a game we boys have invented. We call 
it ' Pirates and Smugglers.' It 's something like 
tag, only we play it on the water, in boats. We 
divide boats and boys up into two sides ; half of 
them are pirates or smugglers, and half of them 
are revenue officers or man-o'-war's-men. The 
'Pirate's Lair' is at the island, and our dock is 
' Cuba.' That 's where the smugglers run in for 
cargoes of cigars and brandy. Mr. Moore gives 
us his empty cigar boxes, and Miss Sherrill (the 
lady who 's down here for her health) lets us have 
all the empty Apollinaris bottles. We fill the bot- 
tles with water colored with crushed blackberries, 
and that answers for brandy. 

" The revenue officers are stationed at Annapolis 
(that 's the Atlantic House dock), and when they 
see a pirate start from the island, or from our dock, 
they sail after him. If they can touch him with 
the bow of their boat, or if one of their men can 
board him, that counts one for the revenue officers; 
and they take down his sail and the pirate captain 
gives up his tiller as a sign of surrender. 

" Then they tow him back to Annapolis, where 
they keep him a prisoner until he is exchanged. 
But if the pirate can dodge the Custom House 
boat, and get to the place he started for, without 
being caught, that counts one for him." 

" Very interesting, indeed," said the new arrival; 
" but suppose the pirate won't be captured or give 
up his tiller, what then ? " 

"Oh, well, in that case," said Teddy, reflect- 
ively, '• they 'd cut his sheet-rope, or splash water 
on him, or hit him with an oar, or something. 
But he generally gives right up. Now, to-morrow 
the Atlantic House boys are to be the revenue 
officers and we are to be the pirates. They have 
been watching us aswe played the game, all summer, 
and they think they understand it well enough to 
capture our boats without any trouble at all." 

"And what do you think?" asked the new 

" Well, I can't say, certainly. They have faster 
boats than ours, but they don't know how to sail 
them. If we had their boats, or if they knew as 
much about the river as we do, it would be easy 
enough to name the winners. But, as it is, it 's 
about even." 

Every one who owned a boat was on the river, 
the following afternoon, and those who did n't own 
a boat, hired, or borrowed one — with or without 
the owner's permission. 

The shore from Chadwick's to the Atlantic House 
dock was crowded with people. All Manasquan 
seemed to be ranged in line along the river's bank. 
Crab-men and clam-diggers mixed indiscriminately 
with the summer boarders ; and the beach-wagons 
and stages from Chadwick's grazed the wheels of 
the dog-carts and drags from the Atlantic's livery- 

It does not take much to overthrow the pleasant 
routine of summer-resort life, and the state of tem- 
porary excitement existing at the two houses on the 
eve of the race was not limited to the youthful con- 

The proprietor of the Atlantic House had already 
announced an elaborate supper in honor of the an- 
ticipated victory, and every father and mother whose 
son was to take part in the day's race felt the im- 
portance of the occasion even more keenly than 
the son himself. 

"Of course," said Judge Carter, "it 's only a 
game, and for my part, so long as no one is drowned, 
I don't really care who wins ; but, if our boys " 
("our boys" meaning all three crews) "allow 
those young whippersnappers from the Atlantic 
House to win the pennant, they deserve to have 
their boats taken from them and exchanged for 
hoops and marbles ! " 



Which goes to show how serious a matter was 
the success of the Chadwick crews. 

At three o'clock the amateur pirates started from 
the dock to take up their positions at the island. 
Each of the three small cat-boats held two boys : 
one at the helm and one in charge of the center- 
board and sheet-rope. Each pirate wore a jersey 
striped with differing colors, and the head of each 
bore the sanguinary red, knitted cap in which all 
genuine pirates are wont to appear. From the 
peaks of the three boats floated black flags, bear- 
ing the emblematic skull and bones, of Captain 
Kidd's followers. 

As they left the dock the Chadwick's people 
cheered with delight at their appearance and shouted 
encouragement, while the remaining youngsters 
fired salutes with a small cannon, which added to 
the uproar as well as increased the excitement of 
the moment by its likelihood to explode. 

and determined purpose such as Decatur may have 
worn as he paced the deck of his man-of-war and 
scanned the horizon for Algerine pirates. The 
stars-and-stripes floated bravely from the peaks 
of the three cat-boats, soon to leap in pursuit of 
the pirate craft which were conspicuously making 
for the starting-point at the island. 

At half-past three the judges' steam-launch, the 
"Gracie," made for the middle ofthe river, carrying 
two representatives from both houses and a dozen 
undergraduates from different colleges, who had 
chartered the boat for the purpose of following the 
race and seeing at close quarters all that was to 
be seen. 

They enlivened the occasion by courteously and 
impartially giving the especial yell of each college 
of which there was a representative present, whether 
they knew him or not, or whether he happened to 
be an undergraduate, a professor, or an alumnus. 




At the Atlantic House dock, also, the excitement 
was at fever heat. 

Clad in white flannel suits and white duck yacht- 
ing-caps with gilt buttons, the revenue officers 
strolled up and down the pier with an air of cool 

Lest some one might inadvertently be overlooked, 
they continued to yell throughout the course ofthe 
afternoon, giving, in time, the shibboleth of every r 
known institution of learning. 

" Which do I think is going to win?" said the 




veteran boat-builder of Manasquan to the inquir- 
ing group around his boat-house. " Well, I would 
n't like to say. You see, I built every one of those 
boats that sails to-day, and every time I make a 
boat I make it better than the last one. Now, the 
Chadwick boats I built near five years ago, and the 
Atlantic House boats I built last summer, and I 've 
learned a good deal in five years." 

" So you think our side will win ?" eagerly in- 
terrupted an Atlantic House boarder. 

" Well, I did n't say so, did I ?" inquired the 
veteran, with crushing slowness of speech. " I did 
n't say so. For though these boats the Chadwick's 
boys have is five years old, they 're good boats still ; 
and those boys know every trick and turn of 'em 
— and they know every current and sand-bar just 
as though it was marked with a piece of chalk. So, 
if the Atlantic folks win, it '11 be because they 've* 
got the best boats ; and if the Chadwick boys win, 
they '11 win because they 're the better sailors." 

In the fashion of all first-class aquatic contests, 
it was fully half an hour after the time appointed 
for the race to begin before the first pirate boat 
left the island. 

The " Ripple," with Judge Carter's two sons in 
command, was the leader ; and when her sail filled 
and showed above the shore, a cheer from the 
Chadwick's dock was carried to the ears of the pi- 
rate crew who sat perched on the rail as she started 
on her first long tack. 

In a moment, two of the Atlantic House heroes 
tumbled into the " Osprey," a dozen over-hasty 
hands had cast off her painter, had shoved her head 
into the stream, and the great race was begun. 

The wind was down the river, or toward the 
island, so that while the Osprey was sailing before 
the wind, the Ripple had her sail close-hauled 
and was tacking. 

" They 're after us ! " said Charley Carter, ex- 
citedly. " It 's the Osprey, but I can't make out 
who 's handling her. From the way they are point- 
ing, I think they expect to reach us on this tack as 
we go about." 

The crew of the Osprey evidently thought so 
too, for her bow was pointed at a spot on the shore, 
near which the Ripple must turn if she continued 
much longer on the same tack. 

" Do you see that?" gasped Charley, who was 
acting as lookout. "They 're letting her drift in 
in the wind so as not to get there before us. I tell 
you what it is, Gus, they know what they 're do- 
ing, and I think we 'd better go about now." 

" Do you ? " inquired the younger brother, who 
had a lofty contempt for the other's judgment as a 
sailor. " Well, I don't. My plan is simply this: 
I am going to run as near the shore as I can, then 
go about sharp, and let them drift by us by a boat's 

length. A boat's length is as good as a mile, and 
then, when we are both heading the same way, I 
would like to see them touch us ! " 

"What's the use of taking such risks?" de- 
manded the elder brother. "I tell you we can't 
afford to let them get so near as that." 

' At the same time," replied the man at the helm, 
" that is what we are going to do. I am command- 
ing this boat, please to remember, and if I take 
the risks I am willing to take the blame." 

" You '11 be doing well if you get off with noth- 
ing but blame," growled the elder brother. "If you 
let those kids catch us, I '11 throw you overboard ! " 

" I '11 put you in irons for threatening a superior 
officer if you don't keep quiet," answered the 
younger Carter, with a grin, and the mutiny ended. 

It certainly would have been great sport to have 
run almost into the arms of the revenue officers, 
and then to have turned and led them a race to 
the goal, but the humor of young Carter's plan was 
not so apparent to the anxious throng of sympa- 
thizers on Chadwick's dock. 

" What 's the matter with the boys ! Why don't 
they go about? "asked Captain Chadwick, excitedly. 
"One would think they were trying to be caught." 

As he spoke, the sail of the Ripple fluttered 
in the wind, her head went about sharply, and, as 
her crew scrambled up on the windward rail, she 
bent and bowed gracefully on the homeward tack. 

But, before the boat was fully under way, the 
Osprey came down upon her with a rush. The Car- 
ters hauled in the sail until their sheet lay almost 
flat with the surface of the river, the water came 
pouring over the leeward rail, and the boys threw 
their bodies far over the other side, in an effort to 
right her. The next instant there was a crash, the 
despised boat of the Atlantic House struck her fairly 
in the side and one of the Atlantic House crew 
had boarded the Ripple with a painter in one hand 
and his hat in the other. 

Whether it was the shock of the collision, or 
disgust at having been captured, no one could 
tell ; but when the Osprey's bow struck the Ripple, 
the younger Carter calmly let himself go over back- 
ward and remained in the mud with the water up 
to his chin and without making any effort to help 
himself, until the judges' boat picked him up and 
carried him, an ignominious prisoner-of-war, to the 
Atlantic House dock. 

The disgust over the catastrophe to the pirate 
crew was manifested on the part of the Chad- 
wick sympathizers by gloomy silence or loudly 
expressed indignation. On the whole, it was per- 
haps just as well that the two Carters, as prisoners- 
of-war, were forced to remain at the Atlantic House 
dock, for their reception at home would not have 
been a gracious one. 




Their captors, on the other hand, were received 
with all the honor due triumphant heroes, and were 
trotted off the pier on the shoulders of their cheering 
admirers; while the girls in the carriages waved their 
parasols and handkerchiefs and the colored waiters 
on the banks danced up and down and shouted like 
so many human calliopes. 

The victories of John Paul Jones and the rescue 
of Lieutenant Greely became aquatic events of 
little importance in comparison. Everybody was 
so encouraged at this first success, that Atlantic 

hundred yards from the Atlantic House pier, where 
the excitement had passed the noisy point and had 
reached that of titillating silence. 

" Go about sharp ! " snapped out the captain of 
the pirate boat, pushing his tiller from him and 
throwing his weight upon it. His first officer pulled 
the sail close over the deck, the wind caught it fairly, 
and, almost before the spectators were aware of it, 
the pirate boat had gone about and was speeding 
away on another tack. The revenue officers were 
not prepared for this. They naturally thought the 



House stock rose fifty points in as many seconds, 
and the next crew to sally forth from that favored 
party felt that the second and decisive victory was 
already theirs. 

Again the black flag appeared around the bank 
of the island, and on the instant a second picked 
crew of the Atlantic House was in pursuit. But 
the boys who commanded the pirate craft had no 
intention of taking nor giving any chances. They 
put their boat about, long before the revenue 
officers expected them to do so, forcing their adver- 
saries to go so directly before the wind that their boat 
rocked violently. It was not long before the boats 
drew nearer and nearer together, again, as if they 
must certainly meet at a point not more than a 

pirates would run as close to the shore as they 
possibly could before they tacked, and were aiming 
for the point at which they calculated their oppo- 
nents would go about, just as did the officers in 
the first race. 

Seeing this, and not wishing to sail too close to 
them, the pirates had gone about much farther 
from the shore than was needful. In order to fol- 
low them the revenue officers were now forced to 
come about and tack, which, going before the wind 
as they were, they found less easy. The sudden 
change in their opponents' tactics puzzled them, 
and one of the two boys bungled. On future oc- 
casions each confidentially informed his friends 
that it was the other who was responsible; but, 




however that may have been, the boat missed 
stays, her sail flapped weakly in the breeze, and, 
while the crew were vigorously trying to set her in 
the wind by lashing the water with her rudder, the 
pirate boat was off and away, one hundred yards to 
the good, and the remainder of the race was a pro- 
cession of two boats with the pirates easily in the 

And now came the final struggle. Now came 
the momentous "rubber," which was to plunge 
Chadwick's into gloom, or keep them still the 
champions of the river. The appetites of both 
were whetted for victory by the single triumph 
each had already won, and their representatives 
felt that, for them, success or a watery grave were 
the alternatives. 

The Atlantic House boat, the "Wave," and the 
boat upon which the Chadwicks' hopes were set, 
the " Rover," were evenly matched, theircrews were 
composed of equally good sailors, and each was de- 
termined to tow the other ignominiously into port. 

The two Prescotts watched the Wave critically 
and admiringly, as she came toward them with 
her crew perched on her side and the water show- 
ing white under her bow. 

*' They 're coming entirely too fast to suit me" 
said the elder Prescott. " I want more room and 
I have a plan to get it. Stand ready to go about." 
The younger brother stood ready to go about, 
keeping the Rover on her first tack until she was 
clear of the island's high banks and had the full 
sweep of the wind; then, to the surprise of her 
pursuers and the bewilderment of the spectators, 
she went smartly about, and, turning her bow di- 
rectly away from the goal, started before the wind 
back past the island and toward the wide stretch 
of river on the upper side. 

" What 's your man doing that for? " excitedly- 
asked one of the Atlantic House people, of the 

" I don't know, certainly," one of the Carters 
answered, " but I suppose he thinks his boat can 
go faster before the wind than the Wave can, and 
is counting on getting a long lead on her before 
he turns to come back. There is much more room 
up there, and the opportunities for dodging are 
about twice as good." 

'■ Why did n't we think of that, Gus?" whis- 
pered the other Carter. 

" We were too anxious to show what smart sail- 
ors we were, to think of anything ! " answered his 
brother, ruefully. 

Beyond the island the Rover gained rapidly ; 
but. as soon as she turned and began beating 
homeward, the Wave showed that tacking washer 
strong point and began, in turn, to make up all 
the advantage the Rover had gained. 

The Rover's pirate-king cast a troubled eye at 
the distant goal and at the slowly but steadily ad- 
vancing Wave. 

His younger brother noticed the look. 

" If one could only ^something," he exclaimed, 
impatiently. " That 's the worst of sailing races. 
In a rowing race you can pull till you break your 
back, if you want to ; but here you must just sit still 
and watch the other fellow creep up, inch by inch, 
without being able to do anything to help your- 
self. If I could only get out and push, or pole ! 
It 's this trying to keep still that drives me crazy." 

" I think we 'd better go about, now," said the 
commander quietly, " and instead of going about 
again when we are off the bar, I intend to try to 
cross it." 

"What!" gasped the younger Prescott, "go 
across the bar at low water ? You can't do it. 
You '11 stick sure. Don't try it. Don't think of 

" It is rather a forlorn hope, I know," said his 
brother; "but you can see, yourself, they 're 
bound to overhaul us if we keep on — we don't draw 
as much water as they do, and if they try to follow 
us we '11 leave them high and dry on the bar." 

The island stood in the center of the river, sepa- 
rated from the shore on one side by the channel, 
through which both boats had already passed, and 
on the other by a narrow stretch of water which 
barely covered the bar the Rover purposed to cross. 

When she pointed for it, the Wave promptly 
gave up chasing her, and made for the channel 
with the intention of heading her off in the event 
of her crossing the bar. 

" She 's turned back ! " exclaimed the captain of 
the Rover. " Now, if we only can clear it, we '11 
have a beautiful start on her. Sit perfectly still, 
and, if you hear her center-board scrape, pull it 
up, and balance so as to keep her keel level." 

Slowly the Rover drifted toward the bar ; once her 
center-board touched, and as the boat moved fur- 
ther into the shallow water the waves rose higher 
in proportion at the stern. 

But her keel did not touch, and as soon as the 
dark water showed again, her crew gave an exult- 
ant shout and pointed her bow toward the Chad- 
wick dock, whence a welcoming cheer came faintly 
over the mile of water. 

" I '11 bet they did n't cheer much when we were 
crossing the bar ! " said the younger brother, with a 
grim chuckle. "I '11 bet they thought we were 
mighty foolish." 

" We could n't have done anything else," re- 
turned the superior officer. " It was risky, though. 
If we'd moved an inch she would have grounded, 

'• I was scared so stiff that I could n't have moved 



if I 'd tried to," testified the younger sailor with 
cheerful frankness. 

Meanwhile, the wind had freshened, and white- 
caps began to show over the roughened surface of 
the river, while sharp, ugly flaws struck the sails 
of the two contesting boats from all directions, mak- 
ing them bow before the sudden gusts of wind until 
the water poured over the sides. 

But the sharpness of the wind made the racing 
only more exciting, and such a series of maneuvers 
as followed, and such a naval battle, was never be- 
fore seen on the Manasquan River. 

The boys handled their boats like veterans, and 
the boats answered every movement of the rudders 
and shortening of the sails as a thoroughbred horse 
obeys its bridle. They ducked and dodged, turned 
and followed in pursuit, now going free before the 
wind, now racing, close-hauled into the teeth of it. 
Several times a capture seemed inevitable, but a 
quick turn of the tiller would send the pirates out 
of danger. And, as many times, the pirate crew 
almost succeeded in crossing the line, but before 
they could reach it the revenue cutter would sweep 
down upon them and frighten them away again. 

" We can't keep this up much longer," said the 
elder Prescott. " There 's more water in the boat 
now than is safe ; and every time we go about we 
ship three or four bucketfuls more." 

As he spoke, a heavy flaw keeled the boat over 
again, and, before her crew could right her, the 
water came pouring over the side with the steadi- 
ness of a small waterfall. " That settles it for us," 
exclaimed Prescott, grimly; "we must pass the 
line on this tack, or we sink." 

" They 're as badly off as we are," returned his 
brother. " See how she 's wobbling — but she 's 
gaining on us, just the same," he added. 

" Keep her toit, then," said the man at the helm. 
" Hold on to that sheet, no matter how much water 
she ships." 

" If I don't let it out a little, she '11 sink ! " 

" Let her sink, then," growled the chief officer. 
" I 'd rather upset than be caught." 

The people on the shore and on the judges' boat 
appreciated the situation fully as well as the racers. 
They had seen, for some time, how slowly the boats 
responded to their rudders and how deeply they 
were sunk in the water. 

All the maneuvering for the past ten minutes had 
been off the Chadwick dock, and the Atlantic 
House people, in order to get a better view of the 
finish, were racing along the bank on foot and in 
carriages, cheering their champions as they came. 

The Rover was pointed to cross an imaginary 
line between the judges' steam-launch and Chad- 
wick's dock. Behind her, not three boat-lengths 
in the rear, so close that her wash impeded their 

headway, came the revenue officers, their white 
caps off, their hair flying in the wind, and every 
muscle strained. 

Both crews were hanging far over the sides of 
the boats, while each wave washed the water into 
the already half-filled cockpits. 

" Look out ! " shouted the younger Prescott, 
" here comes another flaw ! " 

" Don't let that sail out ! " shouted back his 
brother, and as the full force of the flaw struck her, 
the boat's rail buried itself in the water and her 
sail swept along the surface of the river. 

For an instant it looked as if the boat was 
swamped, but as the force of the flaw passed over 
her, she slowly righted again, and with her sail 
dripping and heavy, and rolling like a log, she 
plunged forward on her way to the goal. 

When the flaw struck the Wave, her crew let 
their sheet go free, saving themselves the inunda- 
tion of water which had almost swamped the 
Rover, but losing the headway, which the Rover 
had kept. 

Before the Wave regained it, the pirate craft 
had increased her lead, though it was only for a 

'• We can't make it," shouted the younger Pres- 
cott, turning his face toward his brother so that the 
wind might not drown his voice. " They 're after 
us again, and we 're settling fast." 

" So arc they," shouted his brother. " We 
can't be far from the line now, and as soon as we 
cross that, it does n't matter what happens to us ! " 

As he spoke another heavy gust of wind came 
sweeping toward them, turning the surface of the 
river dark blue as it passed over, and flattening out 
the waves. 

" Look at that ! " groaned the pirate-king, add- 
ing, with professional disregard for the Queen's 
English, "We 're done for now, that 's certain ! " 
But before the flaw reached them, and almost be- 
fore the prophetic words were uttered, the cannon 
on the judges' boat banged forth merrily, and the 
crowds on the Chadwick dock answered its signal 
with an unearthly yell of triumph. 

"We 're across, we 're across! " shouted the 
younger Prescott, jumping up to his knees in the 
water in the bottom of the boat and letting the wet 
sheet-rope run freely through his stiff and blistered 

But the movement was an unfortunate one. 

The flaw struck the boat with her heavy sail 
dragging in the water, and with young Prescott's 
weight removed from the rail. She reeled under 
the gust as a tree bows in a storm, bent gracefully 
before it, and then turned over slowly on her side. 

The next instant the Wave swept by her. and 
as the two Prescotts scrambled up on the gunwale 




"the 'wave' swept ey her and the defeated crew saluted the victors with cheers.' 

of their boat the defeated crew saluted them with 
cheers, in response to which the victors bowed as 
gracefully as their uncertain position would permit. 

The new arrival, who had come to Manasquan 
in the hope of finding something to shoot, stood 
among the people on the bank and discharged his 
gun until the barrels were so hot that he had to 
lay the gun down to cool. And every other man 
and boy who owned a gun or pistol of any sort, 
fired it off and yelled at the same time, as if the 
contents of the gun or pistol had entered his own 
body. Unfortunately, every boat possessed a tin 
horn with which the helmsman was wont to warn 
of his approach the keeper of the draw-bridge. 
One evil-minded captain blew a blast of triumph, 
and in a minute's time the air was rent with foot- 
ings little less vicious than those of the steam 
whistle of a locomotive. 

The last had been so hard-fought a race, and 
both crews had acquitted themselves so well, that 
their respective followers joined in cheering them 

The Wave just succeeded in reaching the 
dock before she settled and sank. A dozen of 
Chadwick's boarders seized the crew by their coat- 
collars and arms as they leaped from the sinking 
boat to the pier and assisted them to their feet, 

forgetful in the excitement of the moment that the 
sailors were already as wet as sponges on their 
native rocks. 

" I suppose I should have stuck to my ship as 
Prescott did," said the captain of the Wave with 
a smile, pointing to where the judges' boat was 
towing in the Rover with her crew still clinging 
to her side ; " but I 'd already thrown you my rope, 
you know, and there really is n't anything heroic 
in sticking to a sinking ship when she goes down 
in two feet of water. " 

As soon as the Prescotts reached the pier they 
pushed their way to their late rivals and shook them 
heartily by their hands. Then the Atlantic House 
people carried their crew around on their shoulders, 
and the two Chadwick's crews were honored in 
the same embarrassing manner. The proprietor 
of the Atlantic House invited the entire Chadwick 
establishment over to a dance and a late supper. 

"I prepared it for the victors," he said, "and 
though these victors don't happen to be the ones I 
prepared it for, the victors must eat it." 

The sun had gone down for over half an hour 
before the boats and carriages had left the Chad- 
wick dock, and the Chadwick people had an oppor- 
tunity to rush home to dress. They put on their 
very best clothes, "just to show the Atlantic people 




that they had something else besides flannels," 
and danced in the big hall of the Atlantic House 
until late in the evening. 

When the supper was served, the victors were 
toasted and cheered and presented with a very 
handsome set of colors, and then Judge Carter 
made a stirring speech. 

He went over the history of the rival houses in a 
way that pleased everybody, and made all the peo- 
ple at the table feel ashamed of themselves for ever 
having been rivals at all. 

He pointed out in courtly phrases how excellent 
and varied were the modern features of the Atlan- 
tic House, and yet how healthful and satisfying 

was the old-fashioned simplicity of Chadwick's. He 
expressed the hope that the two houses would learn 
to appreciate each other's virtues, and hoped that 
in the future they would see more of each other. 

To which sentiment everybody assented most 
noisily and enthusiastically, and the proprietor of 
the Atlantic House said that, in his opinion, 
Judge Carter's speech was one of the finest he had 
ever listened to, and he considered that part of it 
which touched on the excellent attractions of the 
Atlantic House as simply sublime, and that, with 
his Honor's permission, he intended to use it in his 
advertisements and circulars, with Judge Carter's 
name attached. 

By Mary E. Wilkins. 

Who is that young and gentle dame who stands in yonder gilded frame, 
Clad in a simple muslin gown where 'broidered frills hang limply down, 
Blue ribbons in her yellow curls, around her neck a string of pearls — 
Her eyes, blue stars in ancient gloom, a-seeking you all o'er the room, 
As if to call sweet memories to her? — 

My grandmother, before I knew her. 


By Joseph Jastrow, Ph. D. 

TPIK 1'IKKINS INSIillTI-: for tiii-: BLIND, south boston. 

Once upon a time (so all strange stories begin) 
there was born a baby girl. The peculiar thing 
about this " once upon a time " is, that I can tell 
you just when it happened, while the fairy-tale 
writers never can. It was on December 21, 1829, 
she was born into this world ; and no one dreamed 
of the wonderful life this child was destined to live. 
She was a pretty infant with bright blue eyes, but 
very delicate and small, and she was often severely 
ill. But when she came to be about eighteen 
months old, her health improved, and at two years 
of age, those who knew her describe her as a very 
active and intelligent child. She had already 
learned to speak a few words, and knew some of 
the letters of the alphabet. 

But, when she was two years and one month 
old, came the sad event which was to make her 
life a strange one. The scarlet-fever entered the 
household. Her two elder sisters died of the dis- 
ease, and she was stricken down bv it. She was 

dangerously ill for a long, long time. No one 
thought it possible that this delicate child could 
recover. For five months she was in bed, in a per- 
fectly dark room. She could eat no solid food for 
seven weeks. It was a whole year before she could 
walk without support, and two years before she 
could sit up all day and dismiss the doctor. But 
she did not die, though for long her life hung by 
a slender thread. And, when she recovered, she 
was really born anew into a strange world — a 
world so strange that we of this world can hardly 
imagine what it is to live in it. The fever had de- 
stroyed her sight, — the poor little girl was forever 
blind. Nor was this all; her hearing, too, was 
totally gone. And, not being able to hear, she 
would never learn to talk as we do, — she was dumb. 
A pretty child of five years, — deaf, dumb, and 
blind! Even worse. — she had very little power 
to smell or taste. Touch was her only sense. Her 
fingers must take the place of eyes, ears, and mouth. 




Of course the fever had destroyed all recollection 
of her babyhood. Her life in this beautiful world 
that children love, and which she had hardly 
known, was over. She must live in a dark world 
without sunshine, — a silent world without a sound. 
She could not even smell the flowers whose beau- 
ties she could not see. 

But lest you should think so strange and sad a 
story is not meant to be true, I will tell you her 
name. It was Laura Dewey Bridgman. Here it is 
in her own handwriting : 

Her parents — Daniel and Harmony Bridg- 
man — lived on a farm about seven miles from 
Hanover, New Hampshire, and there Laura was 

Some time ago I went to a large, old-fashioned' 
building in South Boston — the Perkins Institute 
for the Blind. At the door of a neat cottage near 
the main building I asked for Miss Bridgman. 
Soon a pleasant-looking woman, fifty-seven years 
old, though looking younger, came into the parlor 
with the matron. 

Miss Bridgman was rather tall and thin and usu- 
ally wore large blue spectacles. When told my 
name, she shook hands and was pleased to learn 
that I brought the greetings of a friend of hers. Her 
face brightened and she uttered a low sound which 
she could make when pleased. She was very lively, 
and one could almost read her feelings by her face. 

But how could she talk and be understood? 
That is a long and a strange story. I must begin 
at the beginning. 

She lived on the farm near Hanover until she 
was eight years old. Her parents were poor and 
they knew nothing of the ways of teaching the 
blind or the deaf and dumb. They treated her 
with great kindness and taught her to make her- 
self useful about the house. It was difficult to 
make her understand what they desired, but they 
communicated by simple signs. Pushing meant 
"go," and pulling, " come." A pat on the head 
meant "That 's good, Laura"; a pat on the 
back, " Laura must n't do that." When Laura 
wanted bread and butter she stroked one hand 
with the other to imitate the buttering ; when she 
wished to go to bed, she nodded her head, just as 
other children do when "the Sandman " comes. 
And when she did n't wish to go to bed, but her 
father thought she ought (perhaps you have heard 
of such cases), he stamped on the floor until she 
felt the shaking, and Laura knew what he meant. 

* I am never sure of her punctuation. 

Her mother taught her to knit, to sew, to set the 
table, and to do other such little things. When 
she set the table, she never forgot just where the 
little knife and fork belonged for her little brother. 
But I will not tell this part of the story, because 
Laura has told it herself. When she was twenty- 
five years old, she wrote an autobiography, telling 
all she remembered of her life at home. Here it 
lies on my table ; sixty-five pages written in a 
queer, square handwriting. She had a peculiar 
way of saying things ; but when you remember 
that she never heard a word spoken, nor spoke 
one herself, and how hard it must be to learn to 
write without seeing the letters, you will think it 
wonderful enough that she could write at all. 
Here is the first page of the autobiography:* 


" I should like to write down the earliest life extremely. 
I recollect very distinctly how my life elapsed since I 
was an infant. But that I have had the vague recollec- 
tion of my infancy. I was taken most perilously ill 
when I was two years and a half. I was attacked with 
the scarlet-fever for three long weeks. My dearest 
mother was so painfully apprehensive that there was a 
great danger of my dying, for my sickness was so ex- 
cessive. The physician pronounced that I should not 
live much longer. My mother had a watch over me in 
my great agony many many nights. I was choked up 
for 7 weeks as I could not swallow a morsel of any 
sort of food, except I drank some crust coffee. I was 
not conveyed out of the house, for an instant for 4 
months till in June or July." 

Then she tells how delighted her mother was 
when she was getting well, how attentive people 
were to her, and how the light stung her eyelids 
" like a sharpest needle or a wasp." She liked to 
see her mother "make so numerous cheeses, apple, 
and egg, and mince-pies, and doughnuts, and all 
kinds of food which always gratified my appetite 
very much." She tells how her mother spun and 
carded wool, and washed, and cooked, and ironed, 
and made maple-molasses, and butter, and much 
else. It is really wonderful how well she knew what 
was going on. She used to follow her mother 
about the rooms, and touch the various objects, 
tables, chairs, books, etc., until she knew them all. 

Laura's great friend was a Mr. Tenny, a kind- 
hearted old man. who "loved me as much as if 
I was his own daughter," she writes. He used 
to take her out for a walk across the fields, or sit 
down by the brook and amuse her by throwing 
stones into the water and letting her feel the little 
waves, that the stonesmade, come back to theshore. 
She always knew Mr. Tenny and all her friends by 
simply feeling their hands. So you see that little 
Laura was quite happy. She never knew how 

All the rest is just as she wrote it. 

74 8 



much more of the world other little girls could en- 
joy, and so she did not envy them. She says her- 
self that " I was full of mischief and fun. I was in 
such high spirits, generally, I would cling to my 
mother, wildly and peevishly many times." She 

my boot, nor any of my folks. I did not feel so 
solitary with a baby as I should have felt if I had 
not it." " I liked my living baby, the cat, much 
better than the boot." 

In this way she spent three long years. Her few 


once seized Mr. Tenny's spectacles from his nose, 
and the old gentleman took it very good-naturedly. 
She innocently threw the cat into the fire, which 
neither her mother nor the cat considered good fun. 
She liked sweet things and nice dresses, and was 
not so very different from other girls, in any way. 
Of course she had a doll, but a queer one it was : 
" I had a man's large boot which I called my little 
baby. I enjoyed myself in playing with the arti- 
ficial baby very much. 1 never knew how to kiss 

signs were all that connected her with other human 
beings. She did not know the name of anything. 
She knew only the few things that she could touch. 
For all the rest she lived in that dark, silent, lonely 
world of her own. The green trees and gay flowers, 
the blue sky and floating clouds were unknown to 
her. Imagine, if you can, a world without color, 
without light ! A perpetual night without moon 
or stars ; would n't it be awful ? No green fields 
and no sky ; no blue eyes and golden hair ; no pict- 




ure-books nor bright dresses. And the sad still- 
ness of that world, where nobody laughs and no 
birds sing and Mother's voice does n't call and 
comfort ; where nobody can tell stories or play 
make-believe. Think of a child who could n't ask 
questions ! Why, that 's the principal thing that 
children have to do ! 

But Laura was not to stay much longer in her 
lonely world. One day a gentleman came to see 
her parents and offered to take Laura to Boston to 
teach her to read and write as other blind children 
do, and to talk with her fingers, as do the deaf and 
dumb. It was Dr. Samuel Howe, superintendent of 
the Perkins Institute for the Blind. He was one of 
those wise men who put heart and soul into what- 
ever they decide to do. What Dr. Howe decided 
to do was to bring Laura Bridgman back into 
our world, just so far as that could be done. Of 
course her parents were sorry to have Laura go, 
but they knew it was for the best ; and Laura felt 
just as homesick, when she came to the big institu- 
tion in Boston, as any other girl of eight years 
would have felt. Of course she could n't know why 
she was taken away from home. She soon made 
friends with the matron, and with her teacher, Miss 
Drew. She spent much time, the first few days, 
in knitting, for she liked to have something to do, 
and took her work to the matron whenever she 
dropped a stitch. 

One morning, after she was used to the Home, 
Dr. Howe and Miss Drew gave Laura her first 
lesson. They were to teach her the alphabet. 
But how ? She could n't see the letters, but she 
could feel them if they were cut out of wood or 
raised on paper. But when she felt something 
like an A, she could not know what it was, and they 
could not tell her. It was just the same as feeling 
her mother's tea-pot : — it was a thing with a funny 
shape and did n't seem to be of any known use. 
As for three things, like C, A, T, spelling or mean- 
ing the puss, you might as well ask her to feel a 
table, a chair, and an inkstand, and give her to 
understand that those meant the cat. There did not 
seem to be any way of showing her what a word 
was for ; you learned it just by hearing other people 
speak. But Laura had never heard nor read nor 
spoken a word since she could remember. 

This is what Dr. Howe did. He took some 
things such as she knew at home, — a knife, fork, 
spoon, key, chair, — and then formed on labels in 
large raised letters the names of these things — 
KNIFE, FORK, etc. He made her feel the knife, 
and then passed her finger over the label ; then he 
pasted the label, KNIFE, on the knife, to show that 
they belonged together, and made her feel them 
again. Laura submitted to it. But all she un- 
derstood was that the labels were not all alike, 

and people seemed to want to paste them on 
things. Her first lesson, lasting three-quarters of 
an hour, left her much puzzled. But at last, after 
many repetitions of this exercise, she seemed to get 
the idea that the raised labels meant the objects. 
She showed this by taking the label, CHAIR, 
and placing it on one chair and then on another. 
Now, Laura was interested ; it was a splendid 
game. Dr. Howe gave her the things and she 
was to find the right labels ; then he gave her the 
labels and she found the things. She had learned 
what a word is, and was delighted. Dr. Howe 
always patted her on the head when she was right, 
and tapped her lightly on the elbow when she 
was wrong. The lessons were long and tedious, 
but — she was acquiring a language ! 

Of course one can not do much talking with a 
lot of labels; and a great many things that one 
wishes to talk about can not be labeled at all. 
The next thing was to teach her that a word was 
made up of letters. The label, BOOK, was cut up 
into four parts: B, O, O, K. Laura was then made 
to feel the label and each of the parts ; then these 
were mixed together and she was to set up the 
word like the label. That was rather easy. 
Then Dr. Howe had a case of metal types made 
for her. It had four alphabets in it and one was 
always set up in alphabetical order, while she 
moved about the other three. In three days she 
learned the order of the letters, and could find 
any letter at once. She was never tired of setting 
up the metal types, to make the few words she had 
learned. She could really be a child now, for she 
could ask questions. She indicated the butter 
to ask what the name of it was, and her teacher 
set up B-U-T-T-E-R on the type-case. Laura felt 
it, took it apart and set it up again, and knew it 
ever after. Those were bright and busy days for 
her. She was making up for her long years of 
loneliness, and entering a real world at last. 

But even this was a clumsy way of talking. 
There was a much quicker way for her : the finger 
alphabet ; and that was learned next. Most deaf- 
mutes can see the signs, but Laura had to learn 
them by feeling. They gave her the type A to feel 
with one hand, while she felt the position of the 
teacher's hand with the other. Then she herself 
made the sign for A, and was patted en the head 
for getting it right. She was overjoyed with this 
easy way of talking. This is what her teacher 
said of it : "I shall never forget the first meal 
taken after she appreciated the use of the finger 
alphabet. Every article that she touched must 
have a name, and I was obliged to call some one 
to help me wait upon the other children, while 
she kept me busy in spelling the new words." 

In that way she talked with me when I saw her 




in Boston. The matron put her own hand in Miss 
Bridgman's and spelled out the words so fast 
that you could hardly follow the motions. But 
she was understood still faster and", with her other 
hand, Miss Bridgman was ready to spell out the 
answers. At one time, she went to lectures with 
her teacher, and if the lecturers spoke slowly her 
teacher could make the signs, and she could 
understand them as fast as the words were spoken. 
So far, she knew only the names of things. When 

X Y Z 


she had learned about one hundred of these com- 
mon nouns, Miss Drew began to teach her a few 
verbs. She let Laura feel the motion of the door 
as it was being closed, and then spelled out " Shut 
door" on her fingers. Then the door was opened 
and her teacher spelled out "Open door." Laura 
knew what " door " was, and so easily learned the 
meaning of " shut " and " open." Then adjectives 
were learned, beginning with such as could be 
easily understood, for example : heavy, light, 
rough, smooth, thick, thin, wet. dry. Next she 
learned proper names, and very soon she knew the 
names of all the many persons in that large institu- 
tion. But just think ! she never knew her own 
name nor even that she had one, until then — 
when she was nine years old. A year later, she be- 
gan to learn to write. A pasteboard, with grooves 
in it, just the size of the small letters, was put un- 
der the paper. A letter was pricked in stiff paper 
so that she could feel its shape ; then, holding the 
pencil in her right hand, she placed the forefinger 
of her right hand close up against the lead, so as to 
feel how the pencil was moving. It was rather 

slow writing, but all the trouble it cost her to learn 
it was forgotten when she sent her first letter to 
her mother. You may be sure that all the village 
saw that wonderful letter, and not a few of the wise 
heads were rather doubtful whether Laura really- 
had written the letter, after all. 

Before going on with the story let me tell you of 
her mother's first visit to the institution. Laura 
had been away from home for six months, and 
doubtless had been wondering in her own mute way 
whether she should ever go home again. She did 
not know enough language to ask about it. Dr. 
Howe tells how the mother stood gazing, with tears 
in her eyes, at the unfortunate child, who was play- 
ing about the room and knew nothing of her pres- 
ence. Presently Laura ran against her and began 
feeling her hands and dress to find out who she was ; 
but soon turned away from her poor mother as from 
a stranger. Her mother then gave Laura a string 
of beads which Laura had worn at home. She rec- 
ognized the beads and joyfully put them around her 
neck. Her mother now tried to caress her, but 
Laura preferred to play. Another article from 
home was given her and she was much interested. 
She examined the stranger more closely ; she be- 
came very much excited and quite pale; suddenly 
it seemed to flash upon her that this was her mother. 
She cared nothing for beads or playmates, now ! 
Nothing could tear her away from her mother's side. 

But, when the time for parting came, Laura bore 
it like a little heroine. She went with her mother 
to the door and, after embracing her fervently, 
took her mother's hand in one of her own and 
grasped the hand of the matron with the other. 
Then she sadly dropped her mother's hand and, 
weeping, walked back into the house. 

The language Laura used at first, and, indeed, 
what she always used, was somewhat different from 
that you and I talk, as is only natural in one whose 
language has not been learned by talking. Her lan- 
guage is more like written or "book" language. 
Here are a few of her early sayings and doings. 
When she wanted bread she said, " Bread give 
Laura." She once asked why t-a-c would not spell 
"cat" as well as c-a-t. That may seem silly to 
you, because you have heard it pronounced ; but for 
her the letters were but three signs, and she could 
not see why one way of making them should not be 
as good as another. When she was taught what 
" right " and " left " meant, she correctly described 
her hands, ears, and eyes, as being right or left, 
but stopped in surprise when she came to her 
nose and did n't know which to call it. When her 
lessons were rather long she said, "My think is 
tired." She soon began to make words as children 
do. She knew what " alone " meant and wished to 
say that she desired company, so she said, " Laura 



go dX-two." After giving her the word " bachelor," 
her teacher asked her to tell what it meant ; she 
remembered old Mr. Tenny and spelled : " Tenny 
bachelor — man have no wife and smoke pipe." 

She had a funny way of playing a game with her- 
self. She would spell a word wrong with one hand, 
slap that hand with the other, then spell it right 
and laugh at the fun. And once, going over a 
box of ribbons that belonged to her teacher, she 
was tempted to take some, but she gravely knocked 
herself on the elbow, which was her own way of say- 
ing " wrong," and put them away. When she was 
quite alone, she sometimes talked to herself, and 
the little fingers spelled out the words as though 
they were proud of what they could do. Even in 
her sleep she has been seen to make the signs indis- 
tinctly with one hand and feel them with the other, 
as though mumbling something in her dreams. 

At one time it was noticed that she was already 
up and dressing when they came to call her in the 
morning. When asked how she knew when to get 
up (for she had no means of knowing the time), 
she said she put her finger in the key-hole and, if 
she felt the shaking, then she knew the girls were 
moving about and it was time to rise. That was 
certainly very bright. She once brought her doll 
to school, and moved its fingers to spell out words 
and said, with delight, " Doll can talk with fingers; 
I taught doll to talk with fingers." 

When Charles Dickens visited her, in 1842, he 
wrote some pages about her in his " American 
Notes," in which he mentions that Laura wore a 
green silk band over her eyes and, on picking up 
her doll, he noticed that a tiny band was tied across 
the doll's eyes too. The little girl wished the doll 
to live in her small world, where people could n't 
use their eyes and had to talk with their fingers. 

But it would be impossible to tell all there is to 
tell : how she learned arithmetic, and geography, 
and history, and much else ; in short how a silent, 
sightless child, with power to make only a few signs, 
grew up into a well-educated, bright, pleasant, 
happy woman. You will find much of the story 
in a book about Laura Bridgman, written by one 
of her teachers, Mrs. Lamson. 

I can only tell you in a few words how her life 
has been passed. Through the kindness of Mr. 
George Combe, of Scotland, and others, it was made 
possible to give her a teacher all to herself. With- 
out one, she could not have been cared for as she 
deserved. Her teachers kept a journal in which 
they put down the story of Laura's progress, and 
you can read it in Mrs. Lamson's book. 

She received all her education at the Perkins 
Institute for the Blind, and has always been there 
except when spending the vacations at home. She 
had many friends, and, through the reports that 

Dr. Howe wrote for many years of her progress, 
had become known to people all over the world. 
Many ladies learned the finger alphabet simply to 
be able to talk with her, and she wrote and re- 
ceived many letters. Her room had a window 
facing south, and she often headed her letters 
" Sunny Home." She took pleasure in arranging 
her room and read a great deal. You know that 
quite a number of books have been printed in 
raised letters for the blind. The letters must be 
large and are printed on one side of the page only. 
It takes sixteen large volumes to print the Bible in 
this way. Most blind persons cultivate one finger 
for reading until it is very sensitive and can feel 
the letters very rapidly, but, of course, not so 
rapidly as we can read with our eyes. 

Miss Bridgman became quite an author, too. 
Almost from the time she learned to write, she be- 
gan to keep daily journals. Those she wrote dur- 
ing her first five years in Boston form quite a large 
pack, and are full of many interesting things. She 
recorded all her little daily doings, and in going 
through them from the earliest to the latest en- 
tries, you can see how she gradually used more and 
more words, and began to use capitals, and wrote 
more clearly. She had also written a few poems. 
These have no rhyme, of course, because that de- 
pends on the sound. What she says in her poems 
is in great part taken or imitated from the Bible. 

Her spare time was devoted to knitting, sewing, 
crocheting lace and mats, and talking. I have a 
very pretty crocheted mat which she made in one 
evening. Though her life was a peaceful and happy 
one, it had also its severe trials. Several of her 
teachers, to whom she was much attached, died ; 
her closest tie with the world was always her con- 
stant teacher and companion, who was eyes, ears, 
and tongue for her. Her teachers naturally learned 
to sympathize with her condition more than others 
could, and the loss of one of these dear friends was 
a great affliction. She even had to endure the loss 
of her benefactor, Dr. Howe. He had lived to see 
her grow up into what he had hoped she might be- 
come when he took her from her home in Hanover. 
His death occurred in 1S76, and affected Miss 
Bridgman so seriously that she was very ill and 
weak for a long time afterward. 

So she lived her quiet life, so the days grew into 
months, and the months into years — and so, also, 
quietly and peacefully she passed away, on the 24th 
of May, 1S89. 

Laura Bridgman's days of darkness are over. 
Many persons will, for a long time to come, think of 
her, and will often speak of the patience she showed 
in her affliction and the earnestness with which she 
labored to make the most of her life. 

She was cared for to the last bv the loving friends 



who had made a happy existence possible to one so to her the sense of human love and sympathy, and 
grievously helpless. Into her dark and silent even made her a sharer in the world's treasure of 
world the wisdom of man found a way ; it brought learning and imagination. 


By Harriet Prescott Spofford. 

A SPOTLESS thing enough, they said. 

The drift, perchance, from foreign lands. 

Washed in atop of mighty tides 
And lightly left along the sands. 

Whether he slept, or waited there 
Unconscious, after that wild pang, — 

Who knows? There came to him at last 
A sense as if some sweet voice sang ; 

Was it the treasure of some shell ? 

Some islander's forgotten bead ? 
A wave-worn polyp from the reef? 

The gardener said, " It is a seed." 

As if, throughout the universe, 
Each atom were obeying law 

In rhythmic order. In his heart 
He felt the same deep music draw. 

Bury it," said he, " in the soil. 

The earth will quicken here, as there, 
With vital force ; — so fair the seed, 

The blossom must be wondrous fair ! " 

And one sharp thrill of tingling warmth 

Divided him ; as if the earth 
Throbbed through him all her stellar might 

With the swift pulse of some new birth. 

Ah, woe, to lose the ample breath 
Of the salt wastes ! To see no more 

The sacrifice of morning burn 

And blot the stars from shore to shore. 

Up the long spirals of his stems 
What currents coming from afar, 

What blessedness of being glows, — 
Was he a blossom or a star ? 

Ah, woe, to go into the dark ! 

Was it for this, the buoyant slide 
Up the steep surge, the flight of foam, 

The great propulsion of the tide ? 

Wings like their own the great moths thought 
His pinions rippling on the breeze, — 

Did ever a king's banner stream 

With such resplendent stains as these? 

To lose the half-developed dream 

Of unknown powers, the bursting throe 

Of destinies to be fulfilled, 

And go into the dark — ah, woe ! 

Over what honey and what dew 
His fragrant gossamers uncurled ! 

Forgotten be that seed's poor day, 
Free, and a part of this high world! 

But the mold closed above the seed 

Relentlessly ; and still as well 
All life went on ; the warm winds blew ; 

The strong suns shone ; the soft rains fell. 

A world of winds, and showers aslant, 
With gauzy rainbows everywhere, 

Cradled in silken sunshine, rocked 
In skies full of delicious air ! 

Ah, happy world, where all things live 
Creatures of one great law, indeed; 

Bound by strong roots, the splendid flower,- 
Swept by great seas, the drifting seed ! 


By Joaquin Miller. 


Captain Duck was a Modoc Indian, with the legs had been eaten off by a bear. But I do not 
shortest possible legs. His legs were so short that very well see how that could be ; for his feet were 

when he walked he waddled along like a very fat 
duck. And that is why he was called Captain Duck 
at the stage station, which was at the foot of the 
great white mountain in the heart of the Modoc 
country, Mount Shasta. Some said his legs had 
been shot off in a battle. And then some said his 
Vol. XVI.— 48. 7 

there, all right. And very big feet they were, too ; 
wide and big and flat like ducks' feet. So I think 
he must have been born that way. 

Poor Captain Duck could not hunt very well, 
or go on the war-path with the other Indians, and 
so he came to the stage station, to hire out, with 




the few rough men who kept the old log fort and 
took care of the stage horses there. 

These men did not like the old Indian, but as 
they were a lazy set, they were glad to have him 
at the fort to rub down and water the stage horses 
when the sun was hot or there was frost in the air. 
But they made all sorts of sport of the poor Indian. 
And, indeed, they laughed at him so much, and 
made so much fun of his short legs and big feet, 
that he often wished he was dead. For he was 
very sad and sensitive. 

One day, Big Dan the stage driver left at the 
station a little boy whose father had died ; for the 
boy had no money to pay fare further. The 
rough, lazy men there put him to work with the 
Indian, and they named him " Limber Tim," 
because he was so slim and limber. And then 
they did not know his name. But I suppose that 
would have made no difference, anyway ; for, in 
the mountains of California, they name folks just 
what they please. And if a boy looks as if his 
name ought to be " Limber Tim," or " Timber 
Slim," or anything of that sort, why that must 
be his name and he can't help it. 

The little orphan boy was sent out every day 
with the short-legged Indian, up on the side of the 
mountain, to herd the stage horses and keep guard 
over them. He had a belt, and a pistol in it, and 
a bowie-knife ; and also a gun to carry on his 

Pretty soon he came to like this very much and 
began to grow like a weed and get fat. He and 
the Indian were the best friends in the world. But 
the men of the station, somehow, were harder and 
harsher than ever. 

But Captain Duck and the boy did not mind it 
so very much now, for each had a friend, — a friend 
in the other. 

They would buckle on their pistols as soon as it 
was daylight and they had had a little breakfast 
of crackers and broiled bear-meat or venison, and, 
each mounting a horse and driving the others, they 
would go up on the mountain-side, and there, by a 
little grove of thick wood, they would stop and 
let them graze all day. Sometimes Limber Tim 
would go to sleep on a warm flat rock, while he 
was supposed to stand guard and look away to the 
right and to the left for Indians on the war-path. 
But Captain Duck would never betray him. 

Every time that Big Dan the stage driver came 
by, he would make all sort of fun of Captain Duck, 
as he hobbled about and hitched up the four stage 
horses, while the driver sat high up in the box and 
snapped his long whip. 

The Indian did not like Big Dan, and Big Dan 
did not like the Indian. Dan said the Indian was 
a spy, and told the men at the stage station that 

some night Captain Duck would set fire to the 
place and run away by the light of the blaze. 

One hot clay, as he sat on the box with the four 
lines in his hand all ready to start off at a gallop 
down the great mountain, he told the Indian, with 
an oath, to " waddle in on his duck legs " and get 
him a drink. 

The Indian did not move. Then Dan struck 
him with his whip. The men standing around 
roared with laughter. Still the sad-faced cripple 
did not move. Then Dan struck him another cut, 
across the face. 

The Indian's brow grew dark and terrible, but 
he did not stir. Some one else brought the drink, 
and then, the driver snapping his whip, the stage 
dashed away down the mountain and left the In- 
dian standing there, with the boy tenderly wiping 
his friend's bleeding face and speaking kind and 
pitiful words to him. The two friends went up on 
the mountain-side by the little pine grove, and 
watched the horses as before, and the Indian never 
spoke at all of what had happened. 

A month or two went by, and everybody forgot 
about the trouble between Big Dan and the sad- 
faced savage. Everybody, did I say ? 

One day the stage came thundering in with Big 
Dan the driver leaning forward helpless on the 
box. There had been a shot fired from the thick 
wood back upon the mountain-side. The man was 
dying, and the four reins were slipping through 
his helpless hands. 

Who could have fired that shot? When the 
stage driver was dead and buried, some of the men 
took Limber Tim aside and asked him whether 
he had been all the time with Captain Duck the 
day the shot was fired. 

" All the time, every minute, every second," 
answered the lad, earnestly. For he had no sus- 
picion at all that Captain Duck had shot the stage 
driver. Indeed, the boy believed what he said, and 
would have maintained it at any hazard. He for- 
got that he had fallen asleep on the warm flat 
rock that cool autumn day. 

The next summer, signal-fires were seen one 
night on the mountain-tops. The men at the stage 
station hastened to fasten the old log fort. For 
this, they knew, meant war. The Modocs were 
on the war-path. 

The men made their guns ready, and gave Lim- 
ber Tim an extra pistol to put in his belt, so that 
he might fight with all his might and help save 
their lives. But when they came to look for Cap- 
tain Duck, next morning, he was gone. He had 
joined the Indians. 

Then the men at the stage station were very 
much afraid ; for they had been very cruel, not 
only to the cripple but to all the Indians, and they 



knew that if they fell into their enemies' hands they 
had no right to expect any mercy at all. 

The next night the Indians set the woods on 
fire, and all the land was dark with smoke. The 
great pine-trees were falling across the road, and 
no soldiers, nor anybody, could come to help the 

The smoke was so dark and thick that the men 
were almost choked. They could not see to shoot 
the Indians, for it was like night. 

" What can we do ? " cried the men shut up in 
the fort, and hiding their eyes from the smoke. 
' ; The Indians will not come near enough for us to 



men shut up in the little log fort, and surrounded 
by the blazing forests. 

The men looked one another in the face as the 
air grew dark and dense from the smoke, and shook 
their heads sadly — for they believed their time to 
die had come. 

About ten o'clock one morning, the Indians ap- 
peared behind the stables and began to fire on the 
tort. They took the horses out, mounted them, 
and then set fire to the stables. 

And now there was little hope, for the flames 
would spread to the fort, and then all must perish. 

see them and fight. If we go out to find them we 
shall be shot down from behind the rocks and trees, 
and not one of us will live to tell the tale." 

" Let me go out ! " said little Limber Tim. " If 
I can find Captain Duck, I will save you all." 

They hurried the boy through the great wooden 
gate of the fort, as he tied a white towel on a ram- 
rod and held it high over his head in the thick 
smoke. Then the men bolted the great gate and 
left the brave little fellow to do his best with his 
white flag. 

By and by, the boy with the white flag on the 



ramrod came pounding at the gate, and the men 
gathered around wild and eager as they opened it. 

"What luck? What hope?" 

" Well, if you will all leave your guns and go out 
one at a time down the stage road and never come 
back here any more, you can go." 

" Never come back here any more ? " cried one 
man, as he jumped toward the gate; " catch me 
comin' back here any more, if I ever get out of 
this ! " and he leaped out through that gate like 
a newly sheared sheep leaping over the bars. 

Then another followed and another, all feeling 
very much ashamed of the way they had treated 
the boy. But somehow they did not have the 
manhood to hold up their heads and say so. 

When the men had gone, glad to go and never 
thinking of looking back or ever returning to the 
Modoc country, Captain Duck came hobbling in. 
The Indians helped Tim to put out the fire and 
then went away, taking all the stage horses and 
guns and blankets with them. So when the sol- 
diers came, three days after, they found only these 
two in charge of the fort, — little Limber Tim and 
Captain Duck. 

The government left some soldiers there after 

that, and Limber Tim was made station-master by 
the stage company ! 

He was the youngest station-master, I suppose, 
that ever was on the border. 

When I passed by there, last year, on a visit to 
my parents in Oregon, I saw him once more. But 
he is a man now. He has long hair, a small, black 
mustache, and wears two pistols in his belt; for 
the frontier ways prevail in that country still. 

As for poor Captain Duck, he is shorter in the 
legs than ever, I think. His face is deeply 
wrinkled now, and his long black hair has turned 
as white as are the shining snows of mighty Mount 
Shasta when seen against the cold, blue sky above. 
He never speaks to any one. But he loves Lim- 
ber Tim with all his heart, and never is long 
away from his side nor out of his sight if he 
can help it. 

Captain Duck was sitting in the chimney-corner 
by the great log fire, smoking his pipe, when I 
saw him last. He was looking straight into the 
fire, — thinking, thinking. And what was he 
thinking about? Maybe he was thinking about 
the dead stage driver who had struck him with a 
whip. It may be so. It may be so. 


' Oh, come, Mr. Lobster, and bring Mr. Crab, 

We 've brought you a beautiful dye. 
It will change both those dull una^sthetic cos- 
To a hue that will charm every eye ! " 

' Very kind, we are sure ! " said the Lobster and 
" But we don't care to die, — it 's our loss : 
We 'd rather be dressed in our every-day clothes 
Than in scarlet, with Mayonnaise sauce ! " 


By Mary E. Wilkins. 


«ND you must spin faster, Dorothy, or 
you '11 go to bed without your supper," 

said Dame Betsy. 

"Yes, ma'am," replied Dorothy. Then she 
twirled the wheel so fast, that the spokes were a 

Dorothy was a pretty little girl. She had a small 
pink and white face ; her hair was closely cropped 
and looked like a little golden cap, and her eyes 
were as blue as had been the flowers of the flax 
which she was spinning. She wore an indigo-blue 
frock, and she looked very short and slight beside 
the wheel. 

Dorothy spun, Dame Betsy tended a stew-kettle 
that was hanging from the crane in the fireplace, 
and the eldest of Dame Betsy's six daughters sat 
on the bench beside the cottage door and ate 
honey-cakes. The other daughters had arrayed 
themselves in their best tuckers and plumed hats 
and farthingales, spread their ruffled parasols, and 
gone to walk. 

Dame Betsy had wished the oldest daughter to 
go with her sisters ; but she was rather indolent, so 
she dressed herself in her best, and sat down on the 
bench beside the door, with a plate of honey-cakes 
of which she was very fond. She held up her 
parasol, to shield her face, and also to display the 
parasol. It was covered with very bright green 
satin and had a wreath of pink roses for a border. 
The sun shone directly into the cottage, and the 
row of pewter plates on the dresser glittered ; one 
could see them through the doorway. The front 
yard of Dame Betsy's cottage was like a little grove 
with lemon-color and pink hollyhocks; one had to 
look directly up the path to see the eldest daughter, 
sitting on the bench, eating honey-cakes. She was 
a very homely girl. All Dame Betsy's daughters 
were so plain and ill-tempered that they had no 
suitors, although they walked abroad every day. 

Dame Betsy placed her whole dependence upon 
the linen chests, when she planned to marry her 
daughters. At the right of her cottage stretched 
a great field of flax, that looked now like a blue sea, 
and it rippled like a sea when the wind struck it. 
Dame Betsy and Dorothy made the flax into linen 
for the daughters' dowries. They had already two 
great chests of linen apiece, and they were to have 
chests filled until there were enough to attract suit- 
ors. Every little while, Dame Betsy invited all the 
neighboring housewives to tea; then she opened 
the chests and unrolled the shining lengths of linen, 
perfumed with lavender and rosemary. " My dear 
daughters will have all this, and more also, when 
they marry," she would remark. The housewives 
would go home and mention it to their sons, for they 
themselves were tempted by the beautiful linen, but 
there it would end. The sons would not go to woo 
Dame Betsy's homely, ill-natured daughters. 

Dorothy spun as fast as she was able ; Dame 
Betsy kept a sharp watch upon her, as she stirred 
the stew. Dorothy wanted some of the stew for 
her supper. It had a delicious odor, and she was 
very faint and hungry. She did not have a great 
deal to eat at anytime, as she lived principally upon 
the scraps from the table, and the daughters were 
all large eaters. She also worked very hard, and 
never had any time to play. She was a poor child 
whom Dame Betsy had taken from the almshouse, 
and she had no relatives but an old grandmother. 
She had very few kind words said to her during the 
day, and she used often to cry herself to sleep at 

Presently Dame Betsy went down to the store to 
buy some pepper to put in the stew, but, as she went 
out of the door, she spoke to the eldest daughter, 
and told her to go into the house and mend a rent 
in her apron. " Since you were too lazy to go to 
walk with your sisters you must go into the house 
and mend your apron," said she. The eldest 
daughter pouted, but she made no reply. Just as 
soon as her mother was out of hearing she called 
Dorothy. " Dorothy, come here a minute ! " she 
cried imperatively. Dorothy left her wheel and 
went to the door. " Look here," said the eldest 
daughter, " I have one honey-cake left, and I have 
eaten all I want. I will give you this, if you will 
mend my apron for me." 


5 8 



Dorothy eyed the honey-cake wistfully, but she 
replied that she did not dare to leave her spinning 
to mend the apron. 

" Why can't you mend it in the night?" asked 
the eldest daughter. 

"I will do that," replied Dorothy eagerly, and 
she held out her hand for the honey-cake. Just as 
she did so she saw the little boy that lived next 
door peeping through his fence. His beautiful little 
face, with his red cheeks and black eyes, looked, 
through the pickets, like a damask-rose. Dorothy 
ran swiftly over to him with her honey-cake. " You 
shall have half of it," said she, and she quickly 
broke the cake in halves, and gave one of them to 
the little boy. He lived with his old grandmother, 
and they were very poor; it was hard for them to 
get the coarsest porridge to eat. The little boy 
often stood looking through the fence and smiling 
at Dorothy, and the old grandmother spoke kindly 
to her whenever she had an opportunity. 

The little boy stood on one side of the fence 
and Dorothy on the other, and they ate the honey- 
cake. Then Dorothy ran back to the house and 
fell to spinning again. She spun so fast, to make 
up for the lost time, that one could not see the 
wheel-spokes at all, and the room hummed like a 
hive of bees. But, fast as she spun, Dame Betsy, 
when she returned, discovered that she had been 
idling, and said that she must go without her sup- 
per. Poor Dorothy could not help weeping as she 
twirled the wheel, she was so hungry, and the 
honey-cake had been very small. 

Dame Betsy dished up the stew and put the 
spoons and bowls on the table, and soon the five 
absent daughters came home, rustling their flounces 
and flirting their parasols. 

They all sat down to the table and began to eat, 
while Dorothy stood at her wheel and sadly spun. 

They had eaten all the stew except a little, just 
about enough for a cat, when a little shadow fell 
across the floor. 

" Why, who 's coming ? " whispered Dame Betsy, 
and directly all the daughters began to smooth their 
front hair; each thought it might be a suitor. 

But everything that they could see entering the 
door was a beautiful gray cat. She came stepping 
across the floor with a dainty, velvet tread. She 
had a tail like a plume, and she trailed it on the 
floor as she walked ; her fur was very soft and long, 
and caught the light like silver ; she had delicate 
tufted ears, and her shining eyes were like yellow 

'• It 's nothing but a cat! " cried the daughters 
in disgust, and Dame Betsy arose to get the broom ; 
she hated cats. That decided the daughters; they 
also hated cats, but they liked to oppose their 
mother. So they insisted on keeping the cat. 

There was much wrangling, but the daughters 
were too much for Dame Betsy ; the beautiful cat 
was allowed to remain on the hearth, and the rem- 
nant of the stew was set down there for her. But, 
to every one's amazement, she refused to touch it. 
She sat purring, with her little silvery paws folded, 
her plumy tail swept gracefully around her, and 
quite ignored the stew. 

" I will take it up and give it to the pig," said 
Dame Betsy. 

" No, no ! " cried the daughters; " leave it, and 
perhaps she will eat it by and by." 

So the stew was left upon the hearth. In the 
excitement, Dorothy had stopped spinning, and 
nobody had observed it. Suddenly, Dame Betsy 
noticed that the wheel was silent. 

"Why are you not spinning, miss?" she asked 
sharply. "Are you stopping work to look at a 

But Dorothy made no reply ; she paid no atten- 
tion whatever : she continued to stare at the cat ; 
she was quite pale, and her blue eyes were very 
large. And no wonder, for she saw, instead of a 
cat, a beautiful little princess, with eyes like stars, 
in a trailing robe of gray velvet covered with silver 
embroidery, and instead of a purr she heard a 
softly hummed song. Dame Betsy seized Dorothy 
by the arm. 

" To your work ! " she cried. 

And Dorothy began to spin, but she was trem- 
bling from head to foot, and every now and then 
she glanced at the princess on the hearth. 

The daughters, in their best gowns, sat with 
their mother around the hearth until nine o'clock; 
then Dorothy was ordered to leave her wheel, the 
cottage was locked up, and everybody went to bed. 

Dorothy's bed was a little bundle of straw, up in 
the garret under the eaves. She was very tired 
when she lay down, but did not dare to sleep, for 
she remembered her promise to mend the eldest 
daughter's apron. So she waited until the house 
was still, then she arose and crept softly downstairs. 

The hie on the hearth was still burning, and 
there sat the princess, and the sweet hum of her 
singing filled the room. But Dorothy could not 
understand a word of the song, because it was in 
the Persian language. She stood in the doorway 
and trembled; she did not know what to do. It 
seemed to her that she must be losing her wits to 
see a princess, where every one else saw a cat. 
Still she could not doubt the evidence of her own 
eyes. Finally, she advanced a little way and 
curtsied very low. The princess stopped singing 
at once. She arose in a stately fashion, and 
fastened her bright eyes upon Dorothy. 

" So you know me ? " said she. 

Dorothy curtsied again. 




" Are you positive that I am not a cat ? " 

Dorothy curtsied. 

"Well, I am not a cat," said the princess. " I 
am a true princess from Persia, traveling incognita. 
You are the first person who has pierced my dis- 
guise. You must have very extraordinary eyes. 
Are n't you hungry? " 

Dorothy curtsied. 

"Come here and eat the stew," ordered the 
princess, in a commanding tone. "Meantime I 
will cook my own supper." 

With that the princess gave a graceful leap 
across the floor; her gray velvet robe fluttered like 
a gray wing. Dorothy saw a little mouse scud 
before her, then in an instant the princess had 
him ! But the moment the princess lifted the mouse, 
he became a gray pigeon, all dressed for cooking. 

The princess sat down on the hearth and put 
the pigeon on the coals to broil. 

" You had better eat your stew," said she ; " I 
won't offer you any of this pigeon, because you 
could not help suspecting it was mouse." 

So Dorothy timidly took up the stew, and began 
to eat it ; she was in reality nearly starved. 

" Now," said the Persian princess, when she had 
finished, "you had better do that mending, while 
I finish cooking and eat my own supper." 

Dorothy obeyed. By the time the apron was 
neatly mended, the princess had finished cooking 
and eaten the pigeon. " Now, I wish to talk a lit- 
tle to you," said she. "I feel as if you deserved my 
confidence since you have penetrated my disguise. 
I am a Persian princess, as I said before, and I am 
traveling incognita to see the world and improve 
my mind, and also to rescue my brother, who is a 
Maltese prince and enchanted. My brother, when 
very young, went on his travels, was shipwrecked 
on the coast of Malta, and became a prince of that 
island. But he had enemies, and was enchanted. 
He is now a Maltese cat. I disguise myself as a 
cat in order to find him more readily. Now, for 
what do you most wish ? " 

Dorothy curtsied; she was really too impressed 
to speak. 

" Answer." said the princess imperiously. 

"I — want," stammered Dorothy, "to — take 
my grandmother out of — the almshouse, and have 
her sit at the window in the sun in a cushioned 
chair and knit a silk stocking all day." 

" Anything else ? " 

" I should like to — have her wear a bombazine 
gown and a — white lace cap with — lilac ribbons." 

" You are a good girl," said the princess, 
" Now, listen. I see that you are not very pleas- 
antly situated here, and I will teach you a way to 
escape. Take your hood off that peg over there, 
and come out with me. I want to find my port- 

manteau that I left under the hedge, a little way 
down the road." 

Dorothy put on her hood and followed the prin- 
cess down the road. The little girl could scarcely 
keep up with her; she seemed to fairly fly through 
the moonlight, trailing her gray robe after her. 

" Here is my portmanteau," said the princess, 
when they had reached the hedge. The hedge 
was all white hawthorn and very sweet. The port- 
manteau had lain well under it. All Dorothy 
could see was a tiny leather wallet, that a cat could 
carry in her mouth. But the princess blew upon 
it three times, and suddenly a great leather trunk 
stood on the grass. The princess opened it, and 
Dorothy gave a little cry ; her eyes were so daz- 
zled. It was like a blaze of gold and silver and 
jewels. " Look at this," said the princess. And 
she took out of the trunk the splendid robe that 
was laid uppermost, 

Dorothy looked ; she could not say anything. 
The robe was woven of silk, with gold and silver 
threads, and embroidered with jewels. 

" If you will give this to Dame Betsy for her 
eldest daughter's bridal dress, she will let you go," 
said the princess. She took a pair of silver shears 
out of the trunk and cut off a bit of the robe under 
a flounce. " Show that to Dame Betsy," said the 
princess, " and tell her you will give her the dress 
made of the same material, and she will let you go. 
Now you had better run home. I shall stay here 
and sleep under the hedge. I do not like Dame 
Betsy's house. Come here in the morning, when 
you have told her about the dress." 

The princess sat down on the trunk, and it 
immediately shrunk into the little wallet ; then 
she curled herself up on the grass under the flowery 
hedge. Dorothy ran home and crept noiselessly 
up to her bed in the garret. 

In the morning, when the daughters came down 
to breakfast, they missed the cat. " Where is the 
cat? "they inquired indignantly of their mother. 
They suspected her of driving the cat away with 
the broom. They had quite a wrangle over it. 
Finally, the daughters all put on finery and went out 
shopping for some needles and pins; then Dorothy 
showed Dame Betsy the scrap of the splendid robe, 
and said to her what the princess had directed she 
should say. 

Dame Betsy was very much surprised and dis- 
turbed. She did not wish to lose Dorothy, who 
was a great help to her; still, she had no doubt 
that a suitor would soon appear for her eldest 
daughter, if arrayed in so beautiful a bridal gown 
as that. She reflected how she might have a tea- 
party and invite all the neighbors, and display 
the robe, and how all the sons would come flock- 
ing to the door. Finally she consented, and 




Dorothy, as soon as her mistress's back was turned, 
ran out and away to the hedge, under which she 
knew the Persian princess to be concealed. 

The princess looked up and rubbed her eyes. 
She had slept late, although the birds were sing- 
ing loudly all around her. Dorothy curtsied and 
said that she had come for the robe. " Very well," 
replied the princess, " I will give it to you ; then 
you must carry it and hang it over Dame Betsy's 
gate, and run back to me as fast as you are able." 

Then the princess blew on the wallet until it 
became a trunk, and she took out the splendid 
robe and gave it to Dorothy, who carried it and 
hung it over Dame Betsy's gate just as she had 
been bidden. But as she was about to run away, 
she saw the little boy who lived next door, peeping 
through his fence, so she stopped to bid him good- 

and cushions and aprons out of the beautiful 
dresses in her trunk. She had a great store of 
them, but they were all made in the Persian 
fashion and were of no use in this country. 

When Dorothy had made the pretty articles out 
of the rich dresses, she went out and sold them to 
wealthy ladies for high prices. She soon earned 
quite a sum of money, which she placed at interest 
in the bank, and she was then able to take her 
grandmother out of the almshouse. She bought 
a beautiful chair with a canary-colored velvet 
cushion, and she placed it at the window in the 
sun. She bought a bombazine dress and a white 
cap with lilac ribbons, and she had the silk stock- 
ing with the needles all ready. 

But the day before the old grandmother came 
the princess bade Dorothy good-bye. "I am 


bye. He felt so sad that he wept, and Dorothy 
herself had tears in her eyes when she ran to join 
the princess. 

Dorothy and the princess then set off on their 
travels ; but nobody except Dorothy herself knew 
that there was a princess. Every one who met 
them saw simply a little girl and a beautiful gray 
cat. Finally they stopped at a pretty little village. 
'• Here," said the princess," " we will rent a 

They looked about until they found a charming 
cottage with a grapevine over the door, and roses 
and marigolds in the yard ; then Dorothy, at the 
princess's direction, went to the landlord and bar- 
gained for it. 

Then they went to live in the cottage, and the 
princess taught Dorothy how to make lovely tidies 

going out again on my travels," said she ; " I wish 
to see more of the country, and I must continue 
my search for my brother, the Maltese prince. 

So the princess kissed Dorothy, who wept ; then 
she set forth on her travels. Dorothy gazed sor- 
rowfully after her as she went. She saw a dainty 
little princess, trailing her gray velvets ; but every- 
body else saw only a lovely gray cat hurrying 
down the road. 

Dorothy's grandmother came to live with her. 
She sat in her cushioned chair, in the sunny win- 
dow, and knitted her silk stocking, and was a very 
happy old woman. Dorothy continued to make 
beautiful things out of the princess's dresses. It 
seemed as if there would never be any end to them. 
She had cut up many dresses, but there were ap- 
parently as many now as when she began. She 




saw no more of the princess, although she thought 
of her daily, until she was quite grown up and was 
a beautiful maiden with many suitors. Then, one 
day, she went to the city to deliver a beautiful 
cushion that she had made for some wealthy ladies, 
and there, in the drawing-room, she saw the Per- 
sian princess. 

Dorothy was left in the room until the ladies 
came down, and as she sat there holding her cush- 
ion, she heard a little velvet rustle and a softly 
hummed song in the Persian language. She 
looked, and there was the princess stepping across 
the floor, trailing her gray velvets. 

" So you have come, dear Dorothy," said the 

Dorothy arose and curtsied, but the princess 
came close and kissed her. '' What have you 
there ? " she inquired. 

Dorothy displayed the cushion ; the princess 

" It is quite a joke, is it not ? " said she. " That 
cushion is for me to sleep on, and it is made out 
of one of my own dresses. The ladies have bought 
it for me. I have heard them talking about it. 
How do you fare, Dorothy, and how is your 
grandmother? " 

Then Dorothy told the princess how the grand- 
mother sat in the cushioned chair in the sunny 
window and knitted the silk stocking, and how she 
herself was to be married the next week to the 
little boy who had lived next door, but was now 
grown up and come a-wooing. 

"Where is his grandmother?" asked the 

Dorothy replied that she was to live with them, 
and that there was already another cushioned chair 
in a sunny window, another bombazine dress and 
lace cap, and a silk stocking, in readiness, and that 
both grandmothers were to sit and knit in peace 
during the rest of their lives. 

"Ah, well," said the princess, with a sigh, "if 
I were only back in Persia I would buy you a wed- 
ding present, but I do not know when that will 
be, — the ladies are so kind." 

Dorothy ventured to inquire if the princess had 
found her brother, the Maltese prince. 

" Dear me, yes," replied the princess. " Why, 
he lives in this very house. He is out in the back 
parlor, asleep on the sofa, this minute. Brother, 
dear brother, come here a second, I pray ! " 

With that a Maltese prince, with a long, aristo- 
cratic face, and beautiful, serious eyes, entered with 
a slow and stately tread. He was dressed in gray 
velvet, like his sister, and he wore white velvet 
mittens. Dorothy curtsied very low. 

" Yes, I found my brother here, some time ago," 
said the princess; " but I have very little hope of 

freeing him from his enchantment. You see, 
there is only one thing that can break the spell : 
one of his mistresses must drive him out of the 
house with the broom, and I do not believe that 
either of them ever will, — they are so exceedingly 
gracious and kind. I have tried to induce my 
brother to commit some little sin, — to steal some 
cream, or some meat, or to fly around the room as 
if he were in a fit (I myself have shown him how to 
do that), but he will not consent. He has too 
much dignity, and he is too fond of these ladies. 
And, if he should, I doubt if he would be driven 
out with the broom, — they are so kind." 

The princess sighed. The prince stood looking 
in a grave and stately manner at Dorothy, but he 
did not speak. " However," the princess contin- 
ued, cheerfully, " we do very well here, and in 
some respects this is a more enlightened country 
than either Persia or Malta, and it is a privilege 
to live here. The ladies are very kind to us, and 
we are very fond of them ; then, too, we see very 
fine company. And there are also Persian hang- 
ings and rugs which make it seem homelike. We 
are very well contented. I don't know, on the 
whole, that we are in any hurry to go away. But 
should either of the ladies ever take it into her 
head to drive my brother out of the house with the 
broom, we shall at once leave the country for Per- 
sia and Malta ; for, after all, one's native land is 

The princess stopped talking, and began to hum 
her Persian song, and then the ladies entered the 
room. They greeted Dorothy kindly ; then they 
began to call, " Vashti, Vashti, come here, pretty 
Vashti," and, " Muff, Muff, come here, pretty 
Muff." For they did not see the Persian princess 
and the Maltese prince, but two beautiful cats, 
whose names were Vashti and Muff. 

" Just hear Vashti purr," said one of the ladies. 
"Come here, pretty Vashti, and try your new 

And the ladies saw a cat sitting on the rich 
cushion, and another cat looking at her gravely,, 
while Dorothy saw a Persian princess, and a Mal- 
tese prince. 

However, the ladies knew that there was some- 
thing uncommon about their cats, and they some- 
times suspected the truth, themselves, but they 
thought it must be a fancy. 

Dorothy left her cushion, and went away, and 
that was the last time she ever saw the Persian 
princess. As she went out the door, the princess 
pressed close to her. The ladies thought she 
mewed, but in reality she was talking. 

"Good-bye, Dorothy," said she, "I hope you 
will live happily ever after. And as for my brother 
and I, we really enjoy ourselves ; we are seeing the 





country and improving our minds, and we love 
the ladies. If one of them should drive him out 
with the broom, he will become a prince again, 
and we shall leave; but I do not know that it is 
desirable. A cat has a more peaceful life than a 
prince. Good-bye, dear Dorothy." 

The princess was going closer to embrace Doro- 
thy, but the ladies became alarmed ; they thought 

that their beautiful cat was going to steal out of 
the house. So they called, and a maid with a 
white cap ran and caught the Persian princess, 
and carried her back to the drawing-room. The 
ladies thought she mewed, as she was being car- 
ried' in, but in reality she was calling back merrily, 
"Good-bye, and live happily ever after, dear 
Dorothy ! " 


( A True Story.) 

By Frances Stoughton Bailey. 

It was our last Friday night at Castle Bluff 
boarding-school. Most of the girls were gone, and 
the few who lived in or around New York, and 
were obliged to remain until Saturday morning, 
were counting the hours of captivity. 

It was a dismal night. The rain beat a cease- 
less tattoo upon the piazza roof, while the honey- 
suckle scraped an accompaniment upon the panes ; 
the wind piped shrilly, and every now and then, 
as it shifted, we could hear the roar of the breakers 
at Forlorn Hope. We were huddled together, 
seven girls, in the study-parlor, grumbling be- 
cause the evening train for New York was an 
express, and so did not stop at Castle Bluff. 

" I would have cut the closing exercises and 
taken the two o'clock train if the ' General ' would 
have let me," said Sarah Priest, frowning. 

'■ The General " was our name for our principal, 
Mrs. M., whose imposing carriage suggested the title 
which Dickens bestows on one of his characters. 

" Our sacerdotal friend seems pensive to-night," 
I remarked, mischievously. " What entertain- 
ment would your Reverence be pleased to counte- 
nance ? " I added, turning to Sarah. The poor 
girl had to answer to a great many punning varia- 
tions of her name. Indeed, we all bore school- 
names. Mine was " Gaul," given me by the class 
in " Caesar's Commentaries," as an improvement 
on "France," otherwise Frances. Minnie Walsh, 
the most diminutive girl in school, was " Cardiff 
Giant," abbreviated to "Cardie"; Jennie Shep- 
herd was known as" Shepherdess" or " Bopeep " ; 
Bertha Hein, who was always "willin'," was 
"Barkis"; " Lib" Chamberlain, a high-spirited, 
independent girl, was called " Liberty." 

I had been reading aloud from " Our Mutual 
Friend," but finding my audience too restless to 
listen, I closed the book and walked to the window. 

" No use to watch for the steamer to-night, girls," 

I said ; ' ' you could n't sight the ' Great Eastern ' a 
boat's-length away." 

" Oh, how nautical ! " remarked Jennie. " Have 
you been taking lessons of Mrs. Jones?" 

" Well, I 'm not so sure that it would n't be a 
good idea to have a lesson from Mrs. Jones," I 
said. " What do you say to one of her ' sailors' 
yarns,' as she calls them ? " 

"Just the thing ! " exclaimed Alice. 

" Let 's get her to tell us a real live blood-and- 
thunder-your-money-or-your-life pirate story." 

"Run along and prepare her, Gaul," said Lib, 
Alice's chum. " We will follow in a procession." 

" Come, girls," cried Alice, "formaline. Choose 
partners! 'But as for me,'" seizing her chum, 
"'give me Liberty, or give me death!'" 

We found the matron sitting before a little wood 
fire, working a cushion for a fair. 

It was almost equal to a voyage around the world 
to go into Mrs. Jones's room. On the mantel and 
shelves were foreign shells and different kinds of 
corals, from the massive brain-coral of the West 
Indies to the delicate pink specimens from the 
Micronesian Islands, also stuffed birds, bits of ore 
from Australia, and Spanish souvenirs. Over a 
photograph of Windsor Castle, the Stars and 
Stripes mingled their folds with those of the Union 
Jack. Above the flags hung a colored lithograph 
of H. M. S. " Three Jolly Tars," which, although 
represented as scudding before a " large " wind, 
on a heavy sea, had all her canvas set. 

Mrs. Jones was fond of young people, and glad 
to relax the strict rules of school discipline. 

"Is that you, Miss Bailey?" said she. "Come 
in, and Miss Priest, too. How many girls are 
there of you ? " she asked, catching sight of the 
line in the hall. 

" ' We are seven,' " said Alice, as we distributed 
ourselves about the room. 




"I wish there were twice as many!" said the 
matron, with one of her genial laughs. " I sup- 
pose you are all glad to be oft' duty, and done with 
that examining board for the term." 

•' In what country were you born, Mrs. Jones?" 
I asked, partly to set the ball rolling and partly to 
settle a disputed point. 

"In no country," answered the lady. "I'm 
the woman ' without a country.' " After enjoying 
our perplexity for a while she added, " I was born 
on the high seas." 

" But of what nationality are you ? " I persisted. 

" I can hardly tell you, my dear," rejoined Mrs. 
Jones. " Perhaps African, as much as any, for I 
was born at sea off the Cape of Good Hope. My 
father was an English sea-captain, and he married 
my mothei, who was a Spanish lady, in Madrid. 

' ' I lived on board ship — the Three Jolly Tars — 
until I was fourteen, so you see that picture is a view 
of my birthplace and early home. My father was 
captain of that vessel for twenty-eight years. 

" When I was sixteen I was married in England, 
and went to housekeeping in Australia. I married 
a sea-captain and made many voyages with him, 
so that much of my life has been passed on ship- 
board. It would really seem more home-like to 
me than living on land, if my husband and chil- 
dren were alive and could be with me." 

" But is n't it dreadfully monotonous — the same 
thing, day after clay ? " inquired Jennie. 

"Dear, no!" said the matron. "If you are 
not a mere passenger, impatient to be at your 
journey's end, you can have as much home-life on 
shipboard as anywhere. As to monotony, the sea 
is the most variable thing in the world, hardly alike 
two days in succession." 

" Did n't you ever meet any nice pirates or have 
any mutinies on board, or anything of that sort, 
you know?" Alice asked persuasively. 

Mrs. Jones laughed. " Not exactly," she said; 
"but we had a bit of a scare on one voyage. Per- 
haps you would like to hear about that ? " 

We gathered around, and she began : 

"My husband was captain of the 'Bonanza,' a 
ship running between Melbourne and Liverpool, 
some twenty-five years ago. I shall never forget 
the first voyage I made with him. Vessels did not 
go so fast then as they do now, and I remember 
that we were just five months and three days from 
Phillips's Dock, Liverpool. 

"Our freight was gold-dust for the return trip, 
and the worst of it was that we could get a crew 
only of convicts. Our own sailors caught the gold- 
fever, which was running very high then, and 
while the ship was lying at Melbourne ran away to 
the gold-fields to prospect for themselves. These 
convicts were old sailors who had been transported 

for crime, but who had served out their terms and 
wished to return to England by working their 
passage. David — that was my husband's name — 
said we could do no better than to take them ; and 
he had n't the slightest fear that they would make 
any trouble : they were too anxious to get back to 

"All seemed to go well for a while, but after 
we had been out to sea for some time, it seemed 
to my husband as if the Bonanza was a little off 
her bearings; so the first bright day he took an 
observation. He was shut up for about an hour 
making the calculations. When he came out I 
saw by his face that something was wrong. He 
went aft and spent some time with the helms- 
man. He had found that the Bonanza ?cas off her 
bearings, sure enough. The man at the wheel 
told him that she would n't mind her helm — that 
she was water-logged. This got about among the 
passengers, and they began to be nervous ; so my 
husband announced that he would make an exam- 
ination, and invited two of the passengers to ac- 
company him into the hold. They went down 
into the lower hold, where the ballast is stowed, 
and found the ship was all right. The captain 
sent the boatswain aloft to give out through the 
trumpet that the report was false. 

" After this I could see that David was uneasy, 
although I did not then understand why. 

" I awoke one night just before seven bells struck. 
When I heard the bells, I knew that it was only 
half-past three, and was trying to get to sleep 
again, when my ears, which are exceptionally 
quick, caught a peculiar scraping sound under the 
berth. There would not seem to be anything 
alarming about this, for most ships are full of rats, 
but the fact was, that the gold tank was built into 
the ship just under the captain's berth, the only 
entrance being by a trap-door. If this scraping 
came from the tank, it could not be rats, for no rat 
who had any respect for his teeth would be likely 
to experiment on the zinc lining. A few nights 
afterward I heard the noise again, and felt sure it 
was some sharp instrument working on a metallic 
surface. I awakened David, but he could not hear 
anything, and said that it must be my imagination. 

" Soon after this, I noticed that a curious change 
had come over Arnie, our cabin-boy. His whole 
name was Arnold Mclntyre. He was really very 
young for the place, but I had been pleased with 
his appearance and induced my husband to take 
him. This was the boy's first trip. His father 
had been a prosperous squatter in Australia, a 
Scotchman by birth, and a fine man. 

" One night the father was awakened by the bark- 
ing of the dogs, and on going to the door found 
a gang of bushrangers surrounding the house. 





They evidently knew that he had been selling cattle 
that day and had brought home a large sum of 
money. It is not likely that they intended to harm 
him, for it was only the money that they were 

after, but he 
and knocked 

" Well, the end of it was 
that the poor Scotchman got 
a bullet through his head, and 
the bushrangers rode away 
with everything valuable. 
Mrs. Mclntyre was never the 
same again. She lost her 
wits, let the baby fall on its 
head (in consequence of 
which it died not long after- 
ward), and she took no notice 
of Arnie. He was a bright, 
clever lad, and it seemed a 
pity that he should go to 
destruction, so we took care 

r , . TT - . "MY EARS CAl'GHT A PI 

ot nun. He was very fond 

of us, and I took great pleasure in teaching him, 

for he was very grateful and a quick scholar. 

" All at once, as I said, a great change seemed to 
have come over him. He came into the cabin 
one morning as white as a piece of canvas, and I 
noticed that his arm shook so that he had to carry 
the captain's coffee-cup with both hands. He de- 
clared he was well, and seemed to be startled when 

we spoke suddenly to him; but during breakfast 
I often noticed that he was gazing at us with an 
indescribable expression. I have seen something 
like it in the face of a dumb animal when it 
is trying in vain to make 
itself understood by a 
human being. 

" I was sitting on deck 
with my work, one pleas- 
ant morning soon after, 
when, happening to need 
a book which was below, 
I sent Arnie down to get 
it. When he handed it 
to me there was a folded 
slip of paper between the 
leaves ; a single word was 
scrawled upon it — the 
word ''Mutiny. ' 

"That day, when we 
had finished our dinner, 
the captain rose in his 
place and made a short 
speech. He said some- 
thing like this: 

"'Ladies and gentle- 
men, I wish to have a 
few straight words with 
you. I do not wish to 
cause alarm, and hope 
there is no occasion for 
any, but I think it best 
that there should be a 
fair understanding be- 
tween us, as to how 
matters stand. I have 
reason to believe that all 
is not right on board, — 
that there is mischief 
brewing among the crew. 
If I can have the support 
of the passengers, I feel 
sure that I can manage 
the men. There must be 
no panic among you. It 
is absolutely necessary 
that all be calm, watch- 
ful, and self-controlled. 


I believe that you will 
be. I think I can trust you and shall expect you 
to sustain me. We will look this danger in the 
face, and we shall see whether a dozen true Eng- 
lishmen can be cowed by a gang of convicts ! ' 

" The speech had the effect my husband desired. 
The passengers felt that he trusted to their honor 
and courage, and the gentlemen all promised to 
be ready to stand by him in any emergency. The 





captain had all hands piped on deck, and we fol- 
lowed. The crew were a hard-looking set of fel- 
lows, most of them, with rough, unshaven, scarred 
faces, and they glowered at the captain, from under 
their heavy eyebrows, like wild beasts. 

"My husband was not much of an orator, but 
when a man's blood is up he can talk, if he ever 

world has not been the better for your living in it, 
but I have treated you as if you had been the most 
honorable men in England. You have had a 
chance to show that there was something of true 
manhood left in you, yet. Now, how have you 
returned this? I will tell you! You mean mis- 
chief! I understand this as well as you do. Your 



/'lit Y'Afe^^*'^ J * 


can ; and I assure you he laid down the law to 
those men in words they could understand. 

" ' There is not a man of you,' he said, ' who 
dares look me in the eye and say that he has re- 
ceived anything but fair play from me, or from 
the subordinate officers, since he shipped on the 
Bonanza. Your past lives have not been such as 
would lead a man to put confidence in you. The 

plot is known to me, and the time has come for 
you to give an account of it. You will find that 
I am not a man to be trifled with. I am master 
of this ship, and I intend to remain so. The 
Bonanza is freighted with gold-dust, and I shall 
defend her with my life ! I command you all, as 
true British sailors, to bring forward your arms and 
lay them on the capstan ! ' 




" You may not know that it is against the ship- 
ping articles for sailors to carry arms; one of the 
first questions asked when a man ships before the 
mast is, ' Have you any weapons ? ' 

"There was silence among the men when the 
captain ceased. We could hear the soft flapping of 
the sails overhead, and the occasional scraping of 
a heel, as some one eased his muscles by shifting his 
weight from one foot to the other. I was standing 
by the main-shrouds and remember counting the 
ratlins over and over, to help keep my self-control. 
It seemed a brief lifetime to me, but I suppose it 
was hardly thirty seconds before four men came 
forward and laid down horse-pistols. Not another 
man stirred. I saw my husband's face redden and 
his eyes flash angrily. 

" ' Is no one else true ? ' he shouted. 

" I began to tremble lest he should lose his self- 

" He called for some chalk. Chalk is always kept 
on board for whitening spots when a ship comes 
into port. He stooped down and began to draw 
two lines across the deck in front of him. Sud- 
denly there was a sharp click. My husband had 
drawn a pistol and cocked it ! An instant after he 
rose to his feet and cried in a voice like thunder, 
' You may walk up to that first line and lay down 
your arms, but if any man crosses the second line, 
I '11 shoot him dead ! ' 

" I closed my eyes, — but when I looked again I 
could hardly see the top of the capstan for the 
bowie-knives and pistols that covered it ! 

' ' The captain called the sailmaker and whispered 
a word in his ear. He went below and came up with 
the irons. The passengers lent a hand, and in a 
few minutes we had the ringleaders provided for. 

" Then the captain thought of Arnie. He said, 
• 1 understand you have got Arnie in tow. Bring 
him up.' He was brought up, pale as death. 

" ' Now,' says the captain, ' you Ve got to tell 
all you know about this business.' 

•' The child's lips quivered. ' If I do, they will 
kill me,' he said. 

"'You shan't be touched,' said the captain. 

Still Arnold was afraid to speak. He was trem- 
bling in every limb. He was such a little fellow, 
his head did not reach up to my shoulder. It 
was the hardest work to make him tell what he 
knew ! David had to promise that he should stay 
in the cabin all the way, and at last he told the 
whole story, and we found everything to be just as 
he said. He had heard it all while lying in his 
bunk; and the men bound him by a dreadful oath 
to secrecy, and swore they would murder him and 
throw his body overboard if he should betray them. 
He believed they would, but he felt that he must 
warn us. He tried to let the captain know in some 
way without breaking his oath, but could not make 
him understand, and had given me the scrap of 
paper as a last resort. 

" The convicts had a large supply of weapons and 
had bribed the steersman to turn the ship from her 
course little by little, intending to mutiny and take 
possession of her. They wished to take her to 
some strange port and then scuttle her, going 
ashore in the boats, and leaving us to our fate. 

" Arnold told which men had weapons in their 
lockers, and where the keys were, and the captain 
sent and seized the arms. He told us, also, that the 
ship's cutlasses, which had seemed in good condi- 
tion at the last inspection, had been deprived of 
their blades, so that, as we found, only the sheaths 
and handles remained, and we could not have used 
them for our defense. 

"The boy also told us that two or three at- 
tempts had been made to cut through the gold 
tank, and, on examining, we discovered several 
places at the side where some sharp instrument 
had been used. This explained the filing sound I 
had heard twice. 

" Arnie had saved our lives, and you may be sure 
we did not forget it. 

" We reached England in safety, and, before 
landing, the passengers made up a handsome purse 
for the boy. He was sent to a good school and 
well educated, and to-day Arnold Mclntyre is an 
officer in the Royal Navy, and one of the finest 
men in Her Majesty's service." 


By C. C. Haskins. 

The road-runner is a native of the western part names as an old convict, but is a very clever, 
of America, and has been seen in nearly every companionable, and useful bird. The Spaniards 
favorable locality on that coast, from northern named him paisano ; he is sometimes called chap- 
California to Central America. He has as many arral-cock, and sometimes ground-cuckoo, while 




6 7 

the naturalists have given him some very long 
names, such as Geococcyx mexicanus; but either 
of the simpler names, road-runner or ground- 
cuckoo, will answer our purpose very well. 

He is a cuckoo, but his appearance is quite 
different from any other known to us in North 
America. His entire length is from twenty to 
thirty inches, and the female is much smaller than 
the male. Half of his length is due to the long 
tail, as you see in his portrait. He is a pretty and 
active bird, with many colors in his coat. The 
upper parts (darkest in the picture) are olive- 
green, each feather being edged with white near 
the outer end. The feathers at the side, and on 
part of the neck, are white trimmed with black, 
and the top of the head is blackish blue. The 
lower portions of the body are white, and the legs 
green. The four toes on each foot are so placed 
that two of them point backward and two forward ; 
and therefore, from the track, it is sometimes diffi- 
cult to tell which way the bird was walking. The 
bare spot around his eye has three colors, red, yel- 
low, and blue, each separate, and the eye itself 
is very bright and beautiful. The crest that 
grows on the head can be erected or depressed, 
at will. The redbird, the waxwing cedar-bird, 
and some others have the same power. That long 
switch-tail he can spread, much like a feather-fan, 
and he waves it up and down very gracefully. 
Sometimes, when excited, he jerks and jumps 
about as a cat-bird will when one comes too near 
the blackberry-bushes. 

The road-runner lives in the chaparral, among 
the cactus-plants. There he is secure from the 
hawks and other large birds of prey, and, as he is 
nearly always on the ground, he can easily escape 
from his enemies by jumping into his castle of 
thorns. He is not a very good house-carpenter, for 
his nest is merely a few dry sticks loosely thrown 
together. His two to four little ones are hatched 
from nearly round, white eggs, a little larger than 
those of pigeons. He has no song, but cooes like a 
dove, and when excited pipes out a shrill, sharp 

But, though neither a house-carpenter nor a 
musician, he is an excellent hunter, and, like most 
hunters, is a very large eater. His food consists 
of bugs, snails, beetles, lizards, snakes, and, I am 
sorry to say, he occasionally makes a dinner of 
small birds. A fat mouse is a dainty bit for him, 
and must be very fleet of foot to escape. He is as 
quick as a cat, and will jump eight or ten feet into 
the air and catch a bug on the wing, closing his 
bill on the unfortunate with a loud, quick snap. 

As he seldom rambles far from home, he collects 
such little necessary articles as are needed for his 
style of housekeeping, and takes care that they 

shall be near. One of these is a butcher's-block, 
where he dresses his meat for dinner. If the bug 
he has caught happens to have a shell, he takes it 
to his " block," which is a large stone or piece of 
bone, and there it is hammered with his bill until 
the shell is broken. The same treatment is 
adopted for large snails; then dinner is ready. 
The early emigrants to California, observing these 
"kitchens" of the chaparral-cock, were greatly 
puzzled to account for their battered appearance 
and the quantities of broken shells and beetle-scales 
lying about, until somebody saw the bird at work. 
The tarantula, a large poisonous spider that 
lives in the same regions as the road-runner, is 
said by the inhabitants to be a favorite food. 
Whether that be true or not, the bird kills every 
one he finds asleep, by a very ingenious method. 
Taking some thorny cactus-leaves in his bill, he 
builds with them a wall around his prey so high 
that the spider can not jump over. Then, taking 
a piece of cactus in his bill, the road-runner 
hovers over the spider and drops the thorny leaf 


upon him. Mr. Spider awakes as much astonished 
as a small boy can be when he falls out of bed, and 
bounds round his little circus-ring until he kills 
himself on the thorns. Then, I suppose, the bird 
eats him, but of this we are not certain. 

The paisano catches lizards and snakes in the 
same cunning way ; and I don't know but a spider 
would do as well for dinner as a lizard. The poison 
of the spider is harmless when taken into the bird's 
stomach, but would probably cause death if in- 
troduced directly into his blood. Similarly, the 
poisoned arrows with which the South Americans 
kill the manatee, or sea-cow, in the Amazon, do 
not make the meat of the animal unfit for food. 
We can not well understand how the bird finds out 
the difference, but I think he must know that it is 
safer not to risk himself in a fight with a poison- 
ous enemy, and that tarantulas for dinner are less 
harmful when dead than when alive. 

The road-runner takes that name from his dis- 
position to escape capture by running rather than 



by flying. It is difficult for a dog to overtake one. 
Lieutenant Couch of the United States Army, 
while in Texas, saw a wolf, which had just failed in 
the attempt to catch a hare, fail a second time in 
trying to catch a road-runner. " Apparently much 
disappointed," the Lieutenant says, " he looked at 
me for a moment with an expression that seemed 
to say, ' I have half a mind to try you.' " Then he 
turned sulkily away, entirely to the officer's satis- 

Colonel Geo. A. McCall, who has been a close 
observer of the bird's habits, once had a long chase 
after a plucky road-runner. The bird was one 
hundred yards in advance at the start, and Colonel 
McCall followed him on horseback for nearly a 
quarter of a mile, at the end of which time he had 
gained only fifty yards upon the little runner. The 
bird then ran into the chaparral, and so saved 
himself just in time, for he was very tired, and 
could not have held out much longer. 

The road-runner is easily tamed, and becomes 
very familiar and mischievous, stealing and hiding 
articles of clothing, spoons, etc. , as persistently as do 
tame jackdaws, crows, or ravens, and he is always 
delighted if he can tear in two a letter or news- 
paper, or tip over an inkstand, a lamp, or a flower- 

A gentleman in California owned one that was 
not confined, but was allowed to run at large like 
a chicken. When small live birds were given to 
him, he treated them as a kitten does a mouse, 
tossing them into the air, throwing and chasing 
them, playing with them until tired, and then 
swallowing them whole. Raw meat was not re- 
fused, but he preferred lizards, and once ate, at a 
single meal, three sparrows, one lizard, and part 
of the breast of a coot, without apparent incon- 

This, I think, must have been a Christmas or 
Thanksgiving dinner! 



By Rowland E. Robinson. 

Looking eastward from Lake Champlain, where 
it is bordered by the township of Lakefield, the first 
eminence that catches the glance that does not over- 
shoot to the nobler heights of the Green Mountains, 
far beyond, is Shag Back. All Lakefield people, 
who have proper town pride, speak of it as Shag 
Back Mountain, or, quite as often, as "the Moun- 
tain," with the same respect that Camel's Hump 
and Mansfield are spoken of by those who dwell 
in their mighty shadows. But when the mountain 
folk have occasion to speak of it, as they sometimes 
do when in its neighborhood, it is only as "that 
hill" or "that cobble," and, in fact, if set on a 
side of one of their grand familiars it would be 
hardly a noticeable ridge. 

Forty years ago or more, Shag Back was so 
famous for its crops of blueberries and huckleber- 
ries, that people came to it from miles away to 
gather them ; but from some unknown cause, these 
crops have failed continuously for many years. 

In the fruitful years, when a nimble-fingered 
picker might fill a milk-pail in an hour, a French 
Canadian lived in a little house standing so near 
the foot of Shag Back, that the sunrise came late 
to it over the mountain's rugged crest of pines and 
gnarled oaks. 

Theophile Dudelant was the name that parents 
and family had given him, but his Yankee neigh- 
bors called him Duffy Doodlelaw. He liked neither; 
for the old name was too suggestive of his cast-off 
nationality when properly pronounced, and the 
attempts of New England tongues thereat sounded 
so oddly that people were apt to laugh when they 
first heard it. So he cast about for a better-sound- 
ing name, and as no one could translate for him 
the one he bore, he hit upon one which, to his ears, 
most resembled it, and presently announced that 
his name in English was David Douglas, by which 
hereafter he would be known. 

Some of his transplanted Canadian friends, who, 
casting off with their moccasins the names of 
ancestors that had toiled and fought with Cham- 
plain and Frontenac, had become Littles, Shorts, 
Stones, Rocks, Grigwires, Greenoughs, Loverns, 
and what not, accepted it as genuine, and were par- 
ticular to address him and speak of him as David 
Douglas; but to his great disgust the Yankees 
continued to call him Duffy Doodlelaw. Then 
Vol. XVI.— 49. 769 

he felt that he had made a mistake and rechrist- 
ened himself David Dudley; but this cognomen 
would stick no better than the other. 

He was thinking of this troublesome question of 
names, quite as much as of the onions he was weed- 
ing, one August forenoon, when the sun's rays fell 
hot upon him. 

" Douglas; Dudley; ah do' know if nc of it was 
de bes', or one of it was de bes'," he soliloquized, 
as, squatted in the path between the beds, he 
tugged at a stubborn bunch of mallows. He car- 
ried on all conversations with himself in English, 
perhaps to perfect himself in the language, but 
more likely to show his mastery of it. And he 
had no one else to talk with, for the two youngest 
children, who had been left at home while their 
mother and the rest went huckleberrying, had not 
yet arrived at intelligible speech. Now and then, 
when irresistibly attracted by the onions they at- 
tempted to pull one, their father would bellow 
hoarsely at them in French, or roar the name of 
the delinquent in English, but he had nothing 
further to say to them. He continued his self- 
converse undisturbed, whether they played and 
laughed, or fought and squalled. 

" Douglas ; prob'ly dat was Dudelant. Dudley ; 
prob'ly dat was Dudelant. Which of it was saoun' 
de bes' ? Ah, do' know, me. Good mawny, 
Mista Douglas ! " addressing himself in his bland- 
est voice. " Dat was saoun' pooty gooode, bah 
jinjo," he commented, and Mr. Douglas began to 
frame a polite response to himself. " Pooty well, 
t'ank you, Mista — " when he caught sight of a 
youngster just snatching an onion-stalk. " Pren' 
garrrde ! " he roared, and the little thief scrambled 
away on all fours with the purloined morsel be- 
tween his teeth. 

Then Theophile resumed, while he tugged at 
the refractory weed, "Pooty well, t'ank you, Mista 
Dud — ," but the mallow suddenly broke or 
loosened its hold, and he sat down unexpectedly 
while the mallow's roots, flying aloft with his 
hands, rained a shower of dry earth upon his up- 
turned face. 

" Sss-a-cre ton sac' ! " he hissed and groaned, as 
he got upon his feet and, wiping the dust from his 
eyes with the backs of both hands, turned to view 
the havoc he had made. " Bah jinjo ! Ah '11 spiltc 




more as half-pecks onion ! " he said sorrowfully. 
"Wal, sah, ah guess ah was be Mista Dudley. 
Mista Douglas he ain't sim for be very good lucky, 
— he si' daown on too much onion ! " 

Accepting this omen as determining his name 
henceforth, he was familiarizing himself with it by 
frequent repetitions, when he heard approaching 
footsteps, and voices hushing to low tones and 
whispers as they drew nearer. 

Looking a little beyond the rough paling of his 
garden, he saw a pretty, fair-haired girl of sixteen 
years, and two small boys two and four years 
younger, in whose complexions and features, 
though sunburned and more coarsely molded, 
brotherhood with her was plainly discernible. The 
three looked so good-humored and happy that it 
seemed hardly possible for one to meet them in 
any other mood, but each carried a pail or basket 
with the evident purpose of berry-picking, and 
Theophile's heart was at once embittered against 
them, and he bent over his onions pretending to 
be unaware of visitors. But when the girl came 
up to the fence, timidly laying her hands upon it, 
starting shyly when the tin pail rang against the 
palings, and accosted him with a pleasant "Good- 
morning, sir," he could no longer ignore their 
presence, but arose and faced the honest blue eyes 
with profuse simulated courtesy. 

•' Gooode mawny, mees. Pooty gooode day dis 
mawny, don't it ? Pooty hot, dough, an' ah guess 
he '11 rain some t'under, by 'n' by, ah guess," and he 
scanned the brassy sky in which there was not a 
promise that rain would ever fall again. " Yas, 
sah, he '11 rain 'fore soon, ah b'lieve so, me." 

The girl cast a questioning look toward the lake 
whence summer showers oftenest came. 

"Oh, dear! Do you think it will rain? My! 
I don't want to get wet, but I 'most wish it would 
rain, for Father says everything needs it, and my 
posy garden is all dryin' up. My Chiny asters is 
all wiltin'." 

"Ah, ma ,poo' leetly gal!" cried Theophile, 
raising his outspread palms toward her, and then 
dropping them by his thighs. " You '11 ain't want 
for git ketch in t'under, up on de mountain. De 
litlin was stroke more as half de tree, ev'ry tarn it 
t'under, an' de t'under stroke more as half de tree 
ev'ry tarn it litlin. Oh, bah jinjo ! But prob'ly 
you '11 ain't goin' dar ?" 

"Oh, yes!" she said, "we've come huckle- 
berryin', and we wanted to ask you where the best 
place is ; we don't know anything about the 

" Goin' on de mount'in ! 'Lone?" said Theo- 
phile, raising his voice in a horrified tone, with an 
exclamation point and an interrogation point brist- 
ling at the end of every word. " One leetly gaal 

an' two leetly boy ? Oh, bah jinjo ! you can' go! 
Ah can' let you went ! You be all eat awp 'fore 
two hour ! You be all tored to piecens ! " and 
his upraised hands fell to clawing the air with 
hooked fingers. 

The smile faded out of the girl's face as she 
lifted her startled eyes to Theophile's, and her 
parted lips framed an inarticulate " Why?" 

"Was it possibly you '11 ain't hear 'baout de 
pant'er? " She shook her head, and her brothers, 
who had stood apart, fidgeting impatiently over the 
delay, were drawn near with quickened interest at 
the mention of a panther. 

"Naw? Wal, bah jinjo! Dey was twenty, 
prob'ly forty. Folkses have hear it yaller ! Ev'ry 
day, ev'ry day ! Ah '11 hear it to-day, myse'f, yes, 
sah ! Prob'ly 'f you '11 listen leetly whiP, you hear 
it, you'se'f. Dah ! " lifting his left hand toward the 
mountain and rolling his eyes in the same direc- 
tion from whence came the snarling squall of a 
young crow, " ain't you '11 hear dat noise ? " 

" That sounds jus' like a crow," the elder boy re- 
marked, after listening a moment with held breath. 

•' Cr-row!" Theophile growled contemptuously. 
" Bah jinjo, ah guess you ain't t'ink he was cr-row 
'f he '11 gat hees claw in you. Yas, sah, he could 
make ev'ry kan' of noise, ev'ry was be make. Like 
blue-jay, like cr-row, like hawk, like howl, like huo- 
mans, like bebbee, w'en he '11 try for foolish some- 
body for come near it. But you '11 wan' hear it w'en 
he '11 spik hees own language ! He '11 mek you 
hairs froze awp straight on tawp you' heads, dat 
time ! Oh, it was dreadfully ! Ma wife her '11 go 
for try git few hawkleberree for make happlesasses 
for de chil'en, tudder day, an' her '11 come home so 
scare of dat pant'er her mos' can' breev, her '11 make 
so much run 'way from it. Her so scare naow, her 
ain't stay home 'mos' any, so close de mount'in. 
Her '11 gone vees'tin' to-day and all de chil'en can 
walked, 'cep' de bebbee, her carry. An' one time 
if you '11 b'lieve, dat pant'er was 'mos' scarit me ; 
but ah '11 ain't scare. No, sah ! He gat to be 
more as one pant'er, for scare me, ah guess," he 
said, in a big voice, ending with a bellow of scorn- 
ful laughter that might have made a panther's 
blood run cold. 

" Ough, the hateful thing ! " the girl shuddered 
as she cast a frightened glance toward the moun- 
tain where the terrible beast was lurking. " It 's 
too bad ! We wanted so to get some for Mother. 
She 's kind o' peaked this summer, and hankers 
after huckleberries, and we 've come 'most three 
miles," she explained to Theophile. " If there 
was only somebody to go with us ! You could n't, 
just till we could git a few ?" she asked, timidly, 
after a little struggle with herbashfulness. "Father 
'd pay you ; I know he would." 




Theophile felt that he had made a mistake in 
vaunting his bravery, for nothing was further from 
his purpose than to guide any one, out of his own 
family, to the fruitful fields that he had set the 
mythical panther to guard. 

" It will make me so glad for go, if ah can, but 
ah can' go an' lef ma leetly chil'en, an' ah can' 
take it. Oh, no, no. Ah can' go to-day, ain't you 
see ? But prob'ly ah could go some mawny very 
airly, an' peek some for you. — very airly, 'fore 
you can gat here. Ah spec' dough, de hawkle- 
berrees all dry awp, he ain't rain, so long tarn.'' 

" Say, Lib," said the older boy, after a long, 
wistful look at the steeps above, whose tops were 
level, with ledges fringed with a shrubby growth 
that promised huckleberries, '■ Le' 's go up apiece; 
I ain't afraid ! " 

" No, no," she said, in a tremor of alarm, " you 
must n't go a step ! " 

" Oh, 'fraid cat ! You can stay here 'f you wan' 
to, an' me an' Abner '11 go. Come on, Abner," 

was not at all unwilling to do so when coaxed, for 
he began to feel a queer sensation creeping and 
crawling down his back till it unpleasantly tickled 
his toes. A great hawk was wheeling in slow cir- 
cles above the mountain and gasping out tremu- 
lous, angry cries, as if he spied some hateful 
intruder prowling beneath him. Perhaps he saw 
the panther. 

" He ain't 'fred for go, all lone, ah know dat," 
said Theophile in a wheedling tone, " but it would 
be weeked ! — weeked ! for go in so danger. An' 
he was good boy, ah know by hees look of it." 

" If I 'd only fetched my gun, I 'd resk anything 
touchin' us," said Johnny, feeling braver with the 
mountain behind him. 

" No, sir ' I guess nothing would," Abner said ; 
and to Theophile, '' He shot a fox last fall when he 
went huntin' with Uncle Abner, did n't you, 
Johnny ? A real fox, sir, and big ! wa' n't he, 
Johnny?" and Johnny nodded a modest assent, 
looking down at the ant-hill he was kicking, yet 


he cried with boyish bravado, and took a few steps casting a furtive, sidelong glance the while to note 

toward the woods ; but Abner did not follow. how the story of his doughty deed was received 

"Oh, Johnny," she pleaded, "be a good boy, by the Canadian. He was quite disgusted that it 

and le' 's go home ; you know we ought to." excited no more surprise than was expressed in 

He would not stop for being told he must, but the remark : 




"Oh, he keel fox, hein ? Wal, sah, de shoot 
dat will keel fox, was jes' make pant'er more mad- 
der, for hate you wus. Wal, ah mus' take care ma 
onion an' ma bebbee, or ma h woman her 'il scol' ! 
Ha ! ha ! Ah '11 more 'fred ma hwoman as ah was 
'fred pant'er. Ha! ha!" 

"Oh, dear suz ! " Elizabeth sighed, "I s'pose 
we must go home. Come, boys. Good-bye, Mis- 
ter ? " 

"Douglas — Dudley, ah meant, was ma nem, 
David Dudley. Good-bye, mees, good-bye. Ah 
be sorry you '11 can' gat some berree." 

When he had seen the disappointed little party 
climb the second fence on their homeward way, he 
turned again to his lazy labor, chuckling over his 
mean achievement. " Pant'er on the mount'in ! 
Oh, bah jinjo ! It took David Dugley for foolish 
de Yankee, — ha! ha! ha-e-ee ! " 

Hot, tired, and disheartened, the girl and her 
brothers went across the fields that seemed to have 
doubled their weary width since they made their 
hopeful morning journey over them. In the past- 
ures where the sheep stood in huddles under the 
trees, with noses close to the ground, making no 
motion but when they kicked at the pestering flies, 
the dry grass was more slippery underfoot and 
the stubble of the shorn meadows was sharper. 
The piercing cry of the locusts and the husky clap- 
ping of their wings sounded more tiresome, hotter, 
and dryer ; and they had not noticed till now that 
the bobolinks had lost their song and gay attire, 
and were gathered in little flocks along thickets 
of elders, raspberry-bushes, and golden-rods that 
almost hid the fences, though they were so high as 
to seem almost insurmountable barriers. Here 
the bumble-bees droned from aster to golden-rod, 
from willow-herb to fire-weed, after brief, fumbling 
explorations of each as if they found no sweet in 
any, and the kingbirds made hovering flights 
from stake to stake, vexing the weary girl with 
their needless alarm and causeless scolding; and, 
indeed, everything in nature seemed out of tune, 
with nothing in it satisfied, or satisfying, or pleas- 
ant or cheery. When they came to the edge of 
the meadow behind their own home, how far away, 
and like an ever-receding mirage, the red house 
and gray barns looked, though they could hear 
the hens cackling. They thought they must die 
of thirst before they could reach the well, though 
they could see the sweep slanting against the sky, 
and even the slender pole that hung from its tip. 
When at last they came near it, a tall man was 
drawing up the bucket, intently watching its slow 
ascent with such care as if it was bringing up his 
fortune and every drop was a diamond, that he did 
not see them till they were close upon him. 

The sunburned face he turned toward them, with 

a little expression of surprise, wore also such habit- 
ual guise of good-nature that one would guess he 
could never be much at variance with anything — 
unless it might be work. 

" Why, younkits, you back so soon ? Where 's 
you' baries?" seeing how lightly hung the empty 
pails and baskets ; and then, with a little chuckle, 
" Wal, I swan ! If you hain't busters ! " His quick 
eye noted how longingly theirs were bent on the 
dripping bucket. "Dry, be ye? Wal, this come 
f 'm the north-east corner, an' it 's colder 'n charity. 
Here 's a dipperful to start on, Libby. " He passed 
a brimming quart to his niece, who held it while her 
brothers drank before she took a sip. 

" Oh, Uncle Abner, there 's a panther!" Johnny 
gasped, when the first draught had loosened his 
parched tongue. 

"A what?" asked the uncle, backing into an 
easy position against the curb. 

" A panther, a real panther. Yes, sir, there is ! " 
in earnest protest against the incredulity expressed 
in his uncle's face; "on Shag Back Mountain, 
there is ! " 

' ' Did you see him ? Wa' n't it a woo' chuck ? " 
Uncle Abner asked, dallying with the returned 
dipper in a way that shocked Elizabeth's house- 
wifely ideas of neatness. 

"Oh, Uncle Abner !" cried Johnny reproach- 
fully. " No, sir, we did n't see him, but a man 
told us, that 's heard him, an' he 's scairt every- 
body to death, so they dassent go there any more." 

" Who 's the man?" 

" Wha' 'd he say his name was, Lib ? Anyways, 
he 's a Frenchman that lives up there, and he 
'pears to be real clever, and candid, and was awful 
'fraid we 'd go and git hurt, but I would 'f I 'd had 
my gun. My sakes ! — if I could shoot a panther ! " 

"The confaounded critter!" Uncle Abner re- 
marked, in as angry a tone as he ever used ; his 
hearers were in some doubt whether the epithet was 
bestowed on the man or on the panther. 

" Why, Uncle Abner, you don't b'lieve the man 
lied ? " Johnny asked, opening his eyes as wide as 
his mouth. There was a fascinating horror in the 
belief that there was a panther so near, as if the 
old times, that made his flesh creep when he heard 
stories of them, had come back, and it made him 
uncomfortable to have his faith shaken. 

"Lie? Oh, no ! That Canuck never lies," Uncle 
Abner replied, hardly reassuringly, "never, when 
he keeps his mouth shut. He would n't care haow 
many hucklebaries folks got, if they bought 'em o' 

When they had detailed all they had heard of 
the savage invader of Shag Back, their uncle gave 
a little snort which expressed skepticism, if not 
downright unbelief, but said nothing till he had 




filled his water-jug and corked it with a coin-cub 
fresh from the crib. 

"Maybe, if we finish gittin' in the oats to-day, 
I 'II go up to Shag Back with ye to-morrow, an' 
we '11 see if we can't git a hucklebary, spite o' that 
painter. The confaounded critter ! " And he- 
strode away with his chuckling jug to the barn, 
where the hoofs of the horses could be heard 
pounding the floor with resounding thumps in 
warfare with the flies. 

The young folks were as glad to have the oat- 
field cleared that day, as if the crop had been their 
own, for it was a great day when Uncle Abner 
would go with them fishing, berrying, or nut- 
ting, and they were sure, now, that a little special 
pleading would make his "maybe" as good as a 

They were not disappointed. When the sun rose 
next morning out of the coppery and leaden clouds 
which gave no promise of the rain that every one 
but these selfish people was wishing for, it was the 
same red, rayless ball that it had been for weeks, 
and soon after breakfast Uncle Abner, with exas- 
perating slowness, made ready to start. In a short 
time the expedition set forth. 

Johnny besought his uncle for leave to take his 
ririe and the old hound. The dog, when he divined 
his master's intention of taking an outing, jumped 
about with delight, bellowed a sonorous entreaty 
to accompany him, tugging at his chain and corru- 
gating his sorrowful brows with new lines of grief 
when he was bidden to stop his noise. 

'■ No, Bub, your gun '11 be 'nough, an' Laoud 
ain't a painter dawg. Shut up, Laoud, 't won't 
be long 'fore coonin' time, ol' feller." 

The hound sat down, shifting his weight from 
one crooked leg to the other, as he wistfully 
watched the party out of sight, and then, after a 
few pivoting turns of imaginary nest-making, lay 
down with a whining sigh of disappointment. 

In company with one so learned as their uncle 
in the lives of wild things, the. way to the moun- 
tain was not long, though they often turned aside 
to see the deserted nest of a bird or the bird it- 
self, when they heard an unfamiliar note. Some- 
times it was a jay, uttering of his many cries one 
that they had never heard before. Sometimes a 
cat-bird practicing some new mimicry in the seclu- 
sion of a fence-side thicket ; and once, when the 
squalls of a shrike drew them to a wide-spreading 
thorn-tree, their uncle showed them an impaled 
sparrow that the little gray and black butcher had 
hung in his leaf-roofed shambles. 

The veil of distance and the droughty haze that 
revealed the mountain only as a velvety gray- 
green bound of the horizon, dissolved in an hour, 
and the steeps arose just before them, clad in the 

individual tints of trees, each wearing such green- 
ness as the pitiless sky had left it. 

Without coming in sight of the Canadian's 
house, they entered the woods at the open door of 
the Notch, and, near the brook that had grown 
faint and almost voiceless in the parching heat, 
they fortified themselves for further journeying 
by draughts from a famous cold spring, the 
scarcely melted outflow of a far-away ice-bed, 
creeping from under a mossy rock into the light 
of day, — a distillation of the heart of the moun- 
tain with a subtle flavor of the hidden inner world, 
and so cold that the scant measure of a birch-bark 
cup full made their throats ache. 

Then they went along on a wood road, which 
wound hither and thither with such gradual turns 
that the children soon so completely lost all knowl- 
edge of the points of compass that the dim shad- 
ows of the trees pointed for them to the south-east, 
and the puffs of south wind bent the hemlock tips 
away from the north. But their uncle's fox-hunt- 
ing had taken him so many times to Shag Back 
that he knew every nook and corner of it, all the 
favorite run-ways of foxes, and, as well, on what 
ledges and slopes the huckleberries flourished 
best, for in the first October days of hunting they 
had not yet all fallen off with the reddening leaves. 
To such a place he had led them, and presently 
they were so busy with picking that the panther 
was almost forgotten. 

It very naturally happened that on the same 
morning Theophile Dudelant went, by a different 
way, to the same place; for no one knew better 
than he where the bushes were most heavily laden 
with the fruit he had set the panther of his own 
creation to keep others from gathering. His con- 
science was not quite benumbed by all the strokes 
and smotherings it had received in the forty years 
(during which he could scarcely recall a time when 
it had not had the worst of his wrestlings with it) 
and it gave him some faint twinges now and then, 
as he remembered the disappointment of his yes- 
terday's visitors, — twinges that he allayed by a 
promise uttered aloud to himself. 

" Bah jinjo ! ah will take some nicest beiree ah 
can fin' to dat folkses, an' sol' it cheap ! Yas, sab, 
floaty cheap; jes' 'nough for paid for ma tarn an' 
troublesome; twelve cen' a quart, ah guess, an' 
take ma paid in pork — if he ain't ask too much ! " 
And thus he excused his invention of an enemy : 
" Wal, dey was ma berree, ain't it? Dat was ma 
orchard, ain't it ? Yas, sah ! Dey ain't let me go in 
dey orchard for happles w'en ah want it, an' ah 'II 
ain't let dey go in ma orchard, if ah can help it, 
bah jinjo ! An', sah, dey maght be pant'er, prob'ly. 
Dey was goode place for it, an' they don't wan' deir 




chillen all tore up to piecensj an' prob'ly dey lay 
it to me. Yas, sah ! It was a very good place for 
pant'er raght here ! " 

Indeed it was — here under low, branching pines 
where twilight brooded throughout the sunniest 
day over the dun, noiseless mat of fallen needles, 
so like a panther in color that one might crouch 
upon it, unseen ten paces away ; so soft that even 
a careless footfall would be unheard at half the dis- 
tance. It was such a likely place for a panther to 
lurk in, that he shivered, in spite of the heat which 
penetrated even these shades, when he heard 
approaching footsteps and the swish of saplings 
and branches recovering their places, and stood 
aghast till he saw a straw hat (of his wife's manu- 
facture) ; and then a neighbor's face appeared 
above the undergrowth that choked the path. 

" Hello, Duffy ! " cried a reassuring voice in a 
tone expressing as much disappointment as sur- 
prise, "I thought you was my yearlin's when I 
heard ye. Hain't seen 'em, hev ye ? I been rum- 
magin' the hull maountain arter 'em, an' can't find 
hide ner hair on 'em. Guess suthin' 's eat 'em 
up — a painter, er suthin'. Mebby a tew-legged 
painter ! But ye know there was a reg'lar painter 
scairt a gal, onct, aouten her seben senses, right 
clus to where we be, not sech a tumble while ago. 
Oh, thirty, forty year, mebby. Yes," stooping to 
look beneath the low boughs toward a spring that 
bubbled up in the shade of the pines, at the edge 
of an old clearing, " right there, at the spring, she 
was a-bleaching a web o' cloth. Guess he 's come 
back an' got my young cattle, for I can't find 'em. 
Goin' baryin', be ye? Wal, I \e seen sights on 
'em this mornin'. If you see them yearlin's, — a 
brindle steer an' tew red heifers, — you let me know, 

The cattle hunter lightly dismissed the subject 
of panthers and went his way, but it had made its 
impression on Theophile. 

There had once been a panther here, and why 
might there not be one now? The possibility so 
constantly presented itself, that he could think of 
nothing else when he had come to his berry patch, 
and he listened long, and carefully scanned the 
bordering thickets before he began picking. 

Years ago the scant growth of wood had been 
cut from an acre or two of this eastering slope, and 
the thin soil nourished now only a knee-deep 
thicket of huckleberry-bushes and sweet-ferns. 
The woods sloped to it on the upper side, a dense 
growth of low pines pierced with tremulous spires 
of young poplars and slender trunks of sapling 
birches traced in thin, broken lines of white against 
the dark evergreens. A deep, narrow hollow ran 
along its lower easterly edge, always dark with the 
shade of pines and balsam firs, a little colony of 

which had established itself here, far from the home 
of the parent stock. Down this hollow the scant 
outflow of a spring trickled almost noiselessly 
among liverwort and moss, from tiny pool to pool 
where ripples quivered with the blazing reflections 
of cardinal-flowers, like inverted lambent flames. 

Theophile had seen it a hundred times, but it had 
never before occurred to him that it was just the 
lurking-place a panther might choose, — where he 
might lie in wait for prey, or rest unseen and un- 
disturbed and quench the thirst begotten by his 
horrible feasts. The intermittent dribble of the 
rill sounded terribly like the slow lapping of a 
great cat ; what seemed but the stir of a leaf, might 
be a footfall of his stealthy approach ; the acci- 
dental snapping of a dry twig, perhaps, by a squir- 
rel ; a rustle of last year's leaves, made by a covey 
of partridges; the sudden shiver of a sapling, 
struck, perhaps, by a. falling, rotted limb, might 
all be signs of his presence as he crept near, with 
cruel, eager eyes, measuring the certain distance 
of a deadly spring. The songs of the birds were 
hushed, as if the singers were awed to silence by 
some baleful presence. No bird voice was heard 
but the discordant squalling of a jay, raised in 
alarmed and angry outcry against some intruder, — 
a fox or an owl, perhaps, — but there were possi- 
bilities that his sharp eyes had discovered some- 
thing far more dreadful than these, prowling in 
the black shadows. The shifting sunlight and 
shadow on a withered pine-bush gave it the sem- 
blance of a living, moving object too large and 
tawny to be a fox, and Theophile held his breath 
and listened to the beating of his heart, till a long 
look had assured him how harmless a thing it was. 
He tried to laugh at his causeless alarm, but the 
sound of his mirthless laughter was so strange that 
it gave him new affright. 

If any eyes were upon him, they could not but 
note his trepidation when he often withheld his 
trembling hands from the drooping clusters of 
fruit, and bent a strained ear to listen to a sigh of 
the wind, the rustle of a leaf, the flutter of a bird, 
or the stir of some shy inhabitant of the woods, 
and scanned again and again the bounds of its 
mysterious shades, often standing up to look 
behind him. 

The scarcely broken silence, an awed, expectant 
hush of nature, the sense of being there alone to 
face whatever might come, were so hard to bear 
that he promised himself he would stay no longer 
than to half fill his pail ; and long before that was 
done he wished for the company of his worthless 
cur, and began to invent a story Of sudden sickness 
to excuse an immediate retreat. 

The drip of the tiny rill seemed to cease in a 
moment of ominous silence, then a poplar shivered 



in a sudden puff of hot wind that died away in a 
gasping sigh among the pines. 

There was acrash of twigs in the edge of the woods, 
and a frightened partridge hurtled across the clear- 
ing, too bewildered to notice him or turn aside for 

When Uncle Abner had sent a final terrific 
screech tearing through the woods after the flying 
Canadian, his part in the play was ended. Before 
the echoes of the unearthly cry had faded, in slow 
pulsations, out of the hot air, he led his little party 


i 11 '! 


him; and then a fiendish yell rent the air, — such 
a terrific outbreak of discordant sound that for an 
instant all power of motion sank out of him, while 
he stood frozen with terror — but only for an instant. 
Then, with a smothered cry of dread, he sprang 
away, instinctively taking the path he had fol- 
lowed thither. His foot caught in a root and he 
fell headlong, dropping his pail and spilling his 
berries, but still continuing his flight on all fours 
till he got again upon his feet, and then ran on and 
on at such speed as he had never made before ; only 
halting when the woods were half a mile behind 
him and he dropped exhausted on a pasture knoll 
and in painful gasps recovered his spent breath. 

forth from their hiding-place to the windrow of 
spilled berries. 

" We '11 leave him his pail, if he ever dares to 
come artcr it ; but it 'ould be tew bad t' hev these 
big ripe baries wasted," he said, as he and the 
children scooped them by handfuls into their own 
half- filled pails. 

Though it is not reported that Shag Back was 
ever again visited by a panther, the dread of such 
a visit abode with Theophile, till dew and rain and 
snow had rusted his pail out of all use but to ex- 
cite the curiosity of such as happened to come upon 
it, — when each one's fancy accounted in its own 
way for the cause of its abandonment. 

By Mildred Hovvells. 






\ fl 



'J*'"''.,/ V.' -"'' ' ' 

( ™ w l /lit-;. 

'-V ' '" ' 


Once within my garden wall, 
From their dainty flight 

Rested a flock of Butterflies, 
All in pink and white. 

Why they chose my garden plot 

I shall never know — 
But people call them now Sweet 

And really think they grow ! 



f ;^i' 

7 7 6 



By Charles Frederick Holder. 

Chapter V. 

It was a glorious day, not a cloud was in the 
sky; the water was as smooth as glass, save when, 
now and then, the flapping tail of some big fish 
splashed the surface. The subdued roar at the outer 
reef sounded like far-off music, the white Keys and 
the azure of the bright sky were reflected again 
and again in the water, and the whole scene seemed 
to the boys a dream of enchantment. 

Long John led the way in the dinghy, with three 
or four of the boys, while the Professor and the rest 
of the expedition followed in the reef-boat. Before 
long, they left the channel and came suddenly 
upon the reef, which here rose almost perpendic- 
ularly from the water and bristled with innu- 
merable points of coral. Deep down among the 
green moss-fronds, an anemone, looking much like 
the weird passion-flower, turned its fair face toward 
them ; angel-fish flashed by, their gay bands and 
wing-like fins resplendent with color ; gayly striped 
murries darted in and out of the shadows of the sea- 
fans and feathers, and the gorgonias, brilliant with 
rainbow tints, played among duller-hued conches 
and hermit-crabs, sea-eggs, and devil-fish. A small 
species of saw-fish darted under the boat, just escap- 
ing Tom Derby's spear, and the weapon landed in 
a large black mass about three feet in diameter and 
concave on top, like a huge vase. 

" Hallo, what 's this? " cried Tom, hauling away 
at the mass. 

" It is a sponge," Professor Howard said. "The 
color is the animal part." 

" Why, are sponges animals, Professor? " asked 

"Animal mucus and fat-oil have been found in 
them by analysis, and scientific men admit them 
to the ranks of animated nature, though of course 
among the very lowest forms," the Professor ex- 
plained. " If you examine them closely in the 
water you may see a slight current over the pores 
and openings, which shows that the necessary 
nourishment is probably thus absorbed while it 
circulates through these cavities. The common 
sponges, as we use them, are but the skeletons." 

The boat was now gradually nearing Bush Key, 
with its scraggy trees, when Eaton exclaimed: 

" Why, there 's a cigar in the water ! " 

" So it is," said Bob Carrington, nearly tumbling 
overboard in an attempt to reach it. 

" Sold again," laughed Vail, who had secured 
one: " it 's only a plant." 

" You 'd find them hard to smoke, boys," said 
the Professor, "although they are more useful than 
all the cigars that could be sent over here from 
Havana. They are the seeds of the mangrove- 
tree, one of the reef-builders. The land of the 
State of Florida has been formed mainly by the 
coral and the mangroves." 

" Tell us how, Professor," said Tom Derby. 

" Well," said the Professor, "suppose this clear 
water, on which we are drifting, should be visited 
by a single egg of the star-shaped coral called the 
Astraea. It settles on a bit of shell. In a few days 
some tentacles spring out, and the tiny polyp 
seems only a solitary sea-anemone. But then a little 
growth of lime, secreted by the anemone, forms 
in the shell, and soon overspreads it with a jagged 
coating. Then, another polyp grows beside this 
one, and the single egg that first drifted here has 
by the process of growth become two. This goes 
on indefinitely, until the bottom all around here 
is covered with coral work. Then, when these 
polyps decay and die, the sea-sand sifts in; other 
corals grow on this ; floating matter is caught and 
added to the growing reef; some forms of branch- 
ing corals take root here, together with gorgonias, 
or sea-fans and feathers ; all these are eaten or 
crushed down by great worms and coral-eating 
fishes. Upon this decay, still other forms of coral 
take root; shell-fish of various kinds make it their 
home ; delicate corals that need protection from the 
waves grow up in the lagoon formed within the 
shallow circle ; as the reef becomes higher, sea- 
weeds and corallines are added ; every particle of 
refuse adds to the upbuilding of this curious island ; 
and now, just as the dry layers, or top-dressings, ap- 
pear above the waves, along comes Eaton's floating 
'cigar.' The larger end of the mangrove bud 
strikes the sand or mud collected on the reef, the 




tide drives it still further on, and, touching the soil, 
it sends out little shoots. These soon obtain foot- 
hold, and thus a mangrove-tree is started. These 
being self-propagating by shoots and rootlets, a 
growth in time may extend around the whole island, 
other waste matter of the sea is accommodated, the 
influence of winds and tides changes the surface, 
and nature furnishes suitable plants to flourish in 
the new soil which the decay of vegetable and ani- 
mal organizations is continually increasing and en- 
riching. That is the secret of reef-building." 

As the Professor had been engaged in his de- 
scription, the boat had slowly drifted toward the 
Key, when right ahead a large sting-ray leaped from 
the water, flapping its wing-like fins in the air a 
moment, and then coming down with a crash that 
was heard all over the lagoon. A large fin showed 
itself above the water, rushing after the ray toward 
a shoal near the Key. 

" It 's a shark chasing a sting-ray," shouted 
Bob Carrington from the bow. " Give way, boys, 
give way ! " 

The boat surged ahead in the direction of the 
great fishes. The shark was gaining on its less 
rapid victim, and the ray repeatedly leaped into 
air to escape the rushes the shark made toward it. 
Suddenly the ray took a desperate chance as it 
neared the shoal, and, instead of turning, dashed 
upon it ; the flat body passed through the scant 
eight inches of water with a rush, and in an instant 
it was through the breakers and in the blue 
waters of the Gulf. The shark, following in blind 
haste, could not force its big body over the shoal, 
and was soon high and dry on the reef. The 
boat's crew were quickly upon it, but, on account 
of its tremendous efforts to free itself, they dared 
not come near it. In its struggles the shark 
would bend nearly double, and then, suddenly 
straightening out, would hurl the water over the 
boys, who had now left the boat and were wading 
about in the shoal water, dodging the shark's tail 
and trying to get within striking distance. Finally 
Woodbury hurled his grains into the shark's head. 
This only increased the shark's struggles, but 
Long John, jumping up to the writhing monster, 
struck it a terrific blow, breaking its backbone, 
and killing the fish as suddenly as if it had been 
struck by lightning. 

" It 's easy enough, when you know how," he 
said, laughing ; and Professor Howard. Ludlow, 
and Long John were soon at work cutting up their 

" Stand still, Tom," said Professor Howard, 
presently, as he lifted the shark's jaw and held 
it so that it easily fitted over Derby's head and 

" It has eight rows of teeth," said Douglasj 

counting them. " What a time the young sharks 
must have when cutting their teeth ! " 

" Yes," said Ramsey, feeling of the terrible 
weapons, "and each one is saw-like and sharp as 
a knife." 

"All the teeth except the front row lie flat," 
said the Professor, " when not in use. As you 
see, they move up and down ; but when it was 
after the ray I feel sure they were all vertical and 
ready for action." 

For his share of the prize. Long John took the. 
liver, intending to try out the oil. 

" Sharks are not entirely worthless animals, you 
see, after all," said Professor Howard. "The 
teeth are used by many savage islanders for 
weapons, the liver is taken out for the oil it con- 
tains, and in the East the tails and fins are valua- 
ble articles of commerce, and the skin, as with us, 
is used for various purposes, and even in jewelry." 

" What do you call this shark that we have 
caught, Professor?" asked Bob Carrington. 

" It is a white shark," he replied, " of the genus 
Carcharias. They have been caught in the East 
over twenty-five feet long. There are at least a 
hundred different specimens of sharks now known 
to naturalists, and this gentleman had an enor- 
mous forefather, away back in what is called the 
Tertiary period, known as the Carcharodon, That 
ancestor must have been over a hundred feet long, 
and had teeth as large as your open palm." 

"But what is this, Professor?" asked Ludlow, 
striking at a black body hanging to the shark, 
just under water, which Long John now exposed 
to view by turning the body over. 

" Take it by the head and pull it off," said Long 
John ; " 't won't hurt you ; it 's only a sucker." 

But this was by no means easy, for the curious 
object stuck so fast that only by a violent wrench 
could Ludlow and Vail tear it from the shark. 

" Why, it 's a remorn, and a very interesting 
fish it is," said Professor Howard. "It follows 
the larger fishes and attaches itself to them by 
this disk, refusing to leave them even when they 
are dead, as you see." 

" That 's why we call 'em ' suckers,' " said Long 

"They are sometimes called ' ship-stayers,' " said 
the Professor, " and one of them is said to have 
changed the history of the world and given the 
Roman Empire to Augustus Cassar." 

Chapter VI. 

DOUBLY interested by so historic and important 
a fish, the boys gathered around this curious speci- 
men and examined it minutely. 

The disk, which was the principal object of 



curiosity about the remora, was oval in shape, and 
on the very top of the head. It resembled, in con- 
struction, a Venetian blind, for it was composed 
of what the Professor called ' ! oblique transverse 
cartilaginous plates," and Tom Derby said were 
" slats of gristle." These were supplied with deli- 
cate teeth or hooks that helped it to cling. 

"Buthowdid ic help Augustus Ceesar?" inquired 

•' There is a legendary story that one of these 
fellows fastened itself on Antony's galley at the 
great naval battle of Actium, and thus allowed 
the galley of Augustus to obtain the advantage 
in the onset," the Professor explained. " Hence 
its name — ' the ship-stayer.' " 

" I have heard you can catch turtles with 'em," 
said Long John, " although I Ve never seen it 

'• I have heard the same thing," said the Pro- 
fessor. " In some countries the natives, it is said, 
keep this fish in a tub of water, and then, when a 
turtle is sighted, the remora, with a cord tied to 
its tail, is tossed overboard. Instinctively, it fast- 
ens itself to the unconscious turtle, which is 
speedily hauled in by the fisherman." 

" Well, well, a live fish-hook. That is an idea," 
laughed Tom Derby. " Let 's keep it and try. 
Only it would be rather rough on us if Mr. Remora 
should fasten himself to a shark instead of to a 

Wading along the shoal toward the reef, the boys 
continued their investigations in tide-water; and 
Ludlow and Woodbury, coming upon a large piece 
of coral, that had been worn almost through, rolled 
it over. In doing so they disclosed a natural pool 
beneath the coral, and at the bottom of the pool 
lay a most peculiar fish. 

" Well, here 's a curious chap, Professor," said 
Woodbury; "what under the sun — or, rather, 
under the coral — is he ? " 

The Professor stooped down and investigated. 
" You 're right, Woodbury : he is a curious chap," 
he said. "This is called the Malthcea. It has, as 
you see, no fins for swimming, but is providedwith 
short feet, like paddles, with which it moves over 
the muddy bottom in which it lives." 

"Well, he's lazy enough," said Vail; as the 
fish, even when touched, showed but small desire 
to move. 

"It is one of the class of sluggish fishes," ex- 
plained Professor Howard, "of which there are a 
number. This one, you will notice, is formed and 
colored so as to appear like an inanimate sub- 
stance, a part of the sea-bottom. But here is the 
singular thing. Do you see here, right under the 
nose, a sort of depression or pit, from the roof of 
which hangs a curiously colored pendant? " 

The boys, after a careful look, saw it distinctly. 

" Well," said the Professor, " that is the means 
by which the Maltltcea makes up for his sluggish- 
ness. His broad mouth rests on the mud, above it 
this curious-looking pendant twists and writhes 
and puffs itself, and looks so much like a tempting 
and luscious worm to the hungry prawn or inquisi- 
tive crab, that the living bait is approached too 
closely ; the great mouth yawns wide open, and — 
good-bye to Mr. Crab or Mr. Prawn ! " 

"Well," said Douglas, "we 've seen a living 
fish-hook and a living bait ; if we keep a sharp 
lookout, perhaps we shall find a live reel or fish- 
ing-pole ! " 

" Here is a curious shell," cried Eaton, who had 
waded out into deeper water. He lifted up a gor- 
gonia a foot in diameter and of a rich yellow hue. 
Clinging to it were a number of beautiful oblong 
shells of about the same tint — tending toward pink. 

" Those are fan-shells," said the Professor, " and 
are parasites on the gorgonia, or sea-fan. They 
make beautiful sleeve-buttons." 

The boys supplied themselves with a stock of 
these natural cuff-buttons, and then Douglas, turn- 
ing over a rock that was alive with spider-crabs, 
pulled a beautiful blue one out of the water and 
tossed it to Long John, to be placed in the water- 
pail for security. 

"Here's an odd fellow," said Tom Derby a 
moment after, stooping over the rock and bringing 
up a curious-looking spider-crab. 

" That is a deep-water one," said the Professor ; 
" some of his big relatives, measuring nearly three 
feet across, have been hauled up in the South At- 
lantic from a depth of nearly two miles.